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THE  STORY  OF 
AN  EAST-SIDE  FAMILY 


THE  STORY 

OF  AN 
EAST- SIDE  FAMILY 


By 
LILLIAN   W.   BETTS 

Author  of 
"  The  Leaven  in  a  Great  City  " 


NEW  YORK 
DODD, MEAD    AND     COMPANY 

1903 


Copyright,   1903,  by 
DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 

First  edition  published 
April,   IQOJ 


HILL    AND     LEONARD 
NEW    YORK    CITY,  U.    S.    A. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  A  BOY  AND  His  MOTHER 1 

II.  THE  NEW  HOME 29 

III.  A  TRAGEDY       58 

IV.  COMING  INTO  MANHOOD 90 

V.  A  MARRIAGE  OF  CONVENIENCE      ....  123 

VI.    LANDED  PROPRIETORS 139 

VII.  THE  HOME  AND  ITS  MISTRESS    ....  167 

VIII.    THEIR  SOCIAL  LIFE 186 

IX.  THE  LOWERING  OF  THE  CLOUD    ....  204 

X.  THE   FOUNDING   AND   PROGRESS   OF   THE 

FAMILY 221 

XL    THE   DAYS  BETWEEN 248 

XII.    LIGHT  AND  DARKNESS 252 

XIII.  THE  MAKING  OF  A  CITIZEN 271 

XIV.  UNTO  THE  SECOND  GENERATION  ....  294 
XV.    AMBITIONS 319 

XVI.    THE  DAY  OF  BECKONING  .  331 


2134370 


THE  STORY  OF 
AN  EAST  -SIDE  FAMILY 


CHAPTEE  I. 

A  BOY  AND  HIS  MOTHER. 

THE  people  living  in  the  houses  on  the  further  side 
of  the  street  were  scarcely  conscious  that  they  did  not 
own  that  open  block;  in  fact,  most  of  them  treated  the 
property  as  though  it  were  their  front-door  yard.  Lum- 
ber was  piled  at  one  end  while  blocks  of  marble  were 
scattered  over  the  other.  Years  ago  the  yards  were 
busy  places  of  business,  now  little  was  done  there.  The 
gates  open  for  the  entrance  and  exit  of  the  big  trucks 
and  carts  that  were  rarely  used,  were  equally  open  to  the 
people.  There  was  a  time  when  these  houses  separated 
from  the  East  Eiver  by  this  open  narrow  block  were 
occupied  by  their  proud  owners,  who  had  watched  their 
building  with  that  delightful  sense  of  ownership  possible 
only  when  the  home  building  represents  years  of  pur- 
poseful aim  and  self-sacrifice,  a  pleasure  debarred  the 
millionaire.  Each  house  bore  some  touch  of  individual- 
ity, for  in  each  was  the  evidence  of  the  owner's  taste  and 
skill  used  to  increase  the  convenience  or  beauty  of  his 
home  when  his  day's  work  was  done. 


THE   STORY   OF 


But  that  was  many  years  ago,  when  the  Brooklyn 
Navy  Yard  was  the  hive  of  industry ;  a  period  when  iron 
in  ship  construction  was  merely  to  hold  the  great  wooden 
bodies  and  wooden  coats  in  place.  The  ferry  at  the  foot 
of  Jackson  Street  then  plied  its  way,  crowded  night  and 
morning,  with  the  happy,  contented  men  whose  trade 
craft  was  at  once  their  pride  and  protection.  But  the 
old  ferry  stopped  running  years  ago.  A  new  skill  was 
needed  in  ship  construction,  and  the  owners  of  the  little 
houses  were  scattered.  Many  of  them  had  adopted  other 
trades,  some  had  gone  into  shop-keeping,  some  had  sold 
their  houses  and  bought  little  places  in  the  country ;  some 
living  elsewhere  derived  an  income  from  the  little  houses 
now  dropping  to  pieces,  which  they  had  not  the  money  to 
repair.  Five  and  even  six  families  were  living  in  space 
designed  for  one.  The  houses  had  grown  shabby  and 
were  but  a  degree  better  than  the  swarms  of  people  who 
now  called  the  shelter  they  gave  home. 

It  was  an  August  evening  when  the  people,  even  on 
this  street  so  close  to  the  river,  had  panted  for  breath  all 
day.  The  pavements  were  hot  to  the  feet.  Some  of 
the  men  living  in  the  little  houses  were  sitting  on  the 
great  blocks  of  marble  and  stone  in  the  yard  opposite, 
holding  babies,  watching  children  who  were  playing 
languidly  about,  the  more  energetic  of  them  climbing 
the  lumber  piles.  The  women  sat  on  the  low  wooden 
stoops  with  more  babies  and  children  under  their  half- 
watchful  care. 

Sharp  commands  given  by  voices  irritated  and  irri- 
tating, voices  that  broke  into  angry  tones  indicated 
clearly  that  if  there  were  only  a  little  more  energy  the 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY 


policeman  might  have  to  leave  his  comfortable  seat. on 
the  top  of  the  corner  groceryman's  coal  box. 

In  the  back  room  of  the  attic  of  the  middle  house  of 
the  row,  where  no  possible  stray  breeze  from  the  river 
could  enter  the  one  window,  a  woman  lay  on  a  bed  close 
under  the  corner  walls.  The  floor  was  bare,  the  boards 
rough;  now  and  then  one  moved  as  it  was  trod  on  and 
squeaked  as  it  moved;  each  time  this  happened  the 
woman  on  the  bed  stirred  restlessly. 

A  boy  of  eleven  years  sat  over  by  the  window  watch- 
ing the  sick  woman  anxiously.  He  envied  the  slatternly 
young  woman  by  the  bed  who  leaned  over  now  and  then 
to  wipe  the  mouth  and  forehead  of  his  mother.  He 
knew  that  his  mother  was  dying,  though  no  one  had 
told  him.  The  slatternly  woman  was  his  sister,  and 
the  tall,  bronzed  man  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  holding  the 
pretty  baby,  which  with  every  loving  device  he  was  try- 
ing to  keep  quiet,  was  her  husband.  Jack  hated  him, 
and  rebelled  with  all  his  boy's  indignation  at  this  man 
daring  to  stand  so  near  his  mother;  he  hated  his  big 
sister  for  fixing  the  pillows  for  his  mother ;  Jack  wanted 
to  do  this  himself,  but  no  one,  not  even  his  mother, 
noticed  him ;  he  was  only  a  boy,  a  boy  of  whom  the  tall 
man  with  the  bronze  throat  disapproved,  and  the  slat- 
ternly woman  rarely  noticed  now  that  she  was  married, 
except  when  she  wanted  him  to  take  care  of  the  baby. 
When  she  shared  the  attic  with  Jack  and  his  mother,  he 
was  always  in  her  way.  He  remembered  well  that  be- 
fore she  married  she  coaxed  and  quarrelled  with  his 
mother  to  get  new  hats  and  "duds"  as  he  called  them; 
getting  them  when  the  money  was  needed  for  food,  and 


THE   STORY   OF 


the  rent  was  uncertain.  He  was  glad  when  she  moved 
around  the  corner,  and  wished  it  had  been  further  away. 
After  the  crying  baby  came,  his  sister,  at  all  incon- 
venient times,  insisted  on  his  pushing  the  baby  car- 
riage, and  "minding  the  kid,"  to  him  the  least  inter- 
esting of  objects.  The  boys  made  fun  of  him,  and  it  at 
last  ended  in  his  refusing  even  his  mother's  coaxing. 
This  made  a  family  fight  in  which  his  mother  protected 
him  from  his  brother-in-law's  rage.  There  was  one  good 
thing,  the  fight  made  Tom  and  Mattie  stay  away ;  Jack 
and  his  mother  lived  in  peace — they  never  quarrelled. 
He  had  fixed  his  mother's  pillows  and  fanned  her  and 
wiped  her  forehead,  yes,  and  combed  her  hair  ever  since 
she  had  been  sick,  until  she  sent  him  after  Tom  and 
Mattie.  After  they  came  he  was  crowded  out,  sent  on 
the  street  with  the  kid.  He  wanted  his  mother  to  him- 
self. He  wiped  his  eyes  with  the  crown  of  his  cap  and 
almost  sobbed.  He  wanted  his  mother.  How  he  would 
like  to  throw  both  of  them  down  the  stairs !  Not  the 
kid,  the  kid  couldn't  help  being  there,  they  brought  it. 
Yesterday  the  kid  just  hung  on  to  his  finger  when  its 
mother  tried  to  take  it.  "  'Twasn't  a  bad  kid ; "  he 
smiled  as  he  remembered  how  the  baby  cried  for  him  last 
week  when  his  sister  took  it  away  to  go  home  to  get 
Tom's  supper. 

There  was  a  movement  on  the  bed,  and  the  boy  leaned 
forward.     Oh !  if  his  mother  would  only  speak  to  him ! 

"Jack." 

He  stood  up.    Why  wouldn't  those  two  go  away  ?    His 
mother  wanted  to  speak  to  him. 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY 


"Jack."  His  sister  motioned  to  him,  and  Jack  came 
slowly  toward  the  bed. 

"Jack,  be  a  good  boy.  Mattie  says  she'll  give  you  a 
home.  Go  to  school.  Yer  wouldn't  for  me,  but  per- 
haps yer  will  for  Tom." 

"I'll  make  him,"  answered  Tom,  tall  and  powerful, 
determined  to  give  peace  to  the  woman  who,  through 
all  his  own  boyhood,  had  been  kind  to  him. 

An  anxious  expression  came  in  her  eyes.  Tom  called 
her  soft-hearted,  and  disapproved  of  her  methods  in 
bringing  up  his  small  brother-in-law,  "the  worst  kid  in 
the  ward,"  he  had  often  assured  her. 

Jack's  mother  looked  pleadingly  at  Tom  and  said  in  a 
whisper,  "Don't  be  cross  to  him,  Tommie.  He  has  a 
good  heart.  Be  good  to  him  and  he'll  love  yer."  She 
was  quiet  for  a  time,  and  then  by  great  effort  she  placed 
her  hands  on  Jack's  head,  sliding  them  to  his  cheeks; 
she  knew  how  he  hated  being  kissed,  and  hesitated  a  mo- 
ment, then  softly,  with  a  long  look  of  love,  she  whispered, 
"Kiss  mother." 

The  boy  threw  himself  on  the  side  of  the  bed,  sob- 
bing as  though  his  heart  would  break.  He  kissed  her 
over  and  over  again,  forgetting  everybody  but  his 
mother.  He  seemed  at  the  moment  to  feel  all  the  loneli- 
ness of  the  bitter  years  that  were  coming  to  him,  when 
no  kiss  would  carry  to  him  a  message  of  love. 

The  woman  on  the  bed  looked  pleadingly  at  the  man 
at  the  foot.  "Tom,  remember  him.  Yer  were  bad 
yerself .  I  saved  yer  from  many  a  lickin'  and  twice  from 
the  cops.  He's  a  little  chap  yet,  younger  than  when  I 
took  you.  He  loves  the  baby,  and  will  help  Mattie.  He's 


6  THE   STORY   OF 

always  been  good  to  his  mother/'  She  was  still,  except 
for  the  gentle  movement  of  her  hands  on  the  brown 
head  beside  her  on  the  bed. 

Jack  remembered  that  hand,  and  often  in  the  lonely 
nights  of  the  years  that  followed  he  felt  that  soft,  gentle 
touch. 

At  last  his  mother's  hand  was  still.  Mattie  cried  out. 
Tom  stepped  to  the  bed  and  leaned  over.  Jack  raised 
his  head.  His  mother's  eyes  had  closed.  Tom  was  cry- 
ing. Jack  knew.  A  hand  seemed  to  grasp  him  by  the 
throat;  he  could  not  breathe.  He  stood  up,  for  he 
seemed  to  be  in  the  way,  though  he  did  not  understand 
what  was  said  to  him.  Dazed  and  trembling,  he  went 
back  to  the  box  under  the  window  and  sat  down. 

Tom  put  the  baby  on  the  bed  and  took  Mattie  in  his 
arms,  a  strange  thing  to  do.  Jack  had  never  seen  it  in  his 
life  before,  but  it  must  be  very  nice  to  have  some  one 
hold  you  when  you  felt  as  if  you  could  not  hold  your- 
self. Tom  kissed  Mattie  and  put  her  in  the  big  chair 
in  which  his  mother  had  sat  so  many  hours. 

No  one  noticed  Jack  or  seemed  to  think  of  him.  He 
leaned  back  against  the  wall,  with  tears  dropping  now 
and  then,  a  great  ache  in  his  throat. 

After  a  time  Tom  went  out  and  came  back  with 
some  of  the  women  who  lived  in  the  house;  they  stood 
by  the  bed,  some  with  their  aprons  to  their  eyes;  they 
whispered  together.  The  one  for  whom  Jack  had  a  feel- 
ing of  affection,  she  was  so  good-natured  and  generous 
with  pennies  when  he  went  for  "a  pint,"  came  over  to 
him  and  whispered; 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY 


"Go  down  and  sit  with  the  old  man  a  bit.  Do  yer 
know,  I  think  he's  makin'  yer  a  kite." 

Jack  got  up  wondering  why  he  did  not  care  more  for 
the  kite ;  he  went  toward  the  door ;  he  heard  the  woman 
say,  "God  help  him."  He  walked  with  his  eyes  fastened 
on  his  mother.  Tom  was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the 
floor  and  Jack  bumped  into  him;  he  ducked,  expecting 
a  blow,  but  Tom  put  his  hand  on  his  shoulder,  saying 
softly,  "Poor  little  kid."  Jack  looked  in  his  face ;  what 
he  saw  there  was  so  unexpected  that  he  called  out,  "I 
want  me  mother !" 

Tom  looked  at  the  boy,  his  own  eyes  full  of  tears,  but 
the  woman  he  liked  took  him  in  her  arms,  crooning, 
"Acushla,  acushla,  may  the  Virgin  comfort  yer,"  her 
tears  raining  down  on  his  face.  She  led  him  out  of  the 
room,  down  stairs.  "Pat,  shure,  ye'll  make  him  a  kite 
as  yer  used  ter  fer  Jimmy." 

The  man  with  gray  hair  sitting  by  the  window  started ; 
when  had  any  one  said  Jimmy's  name  to  him?  Not 
even  Jimmy's  mother  these  many  years.  Jimmy  was 
their  son,  their  only  child.  Just  such  a  night  years  and 
years  ago  when  you  could  hardly  get  your  breath,  Jimmy 
went  swimming.  He  called  out  to  his  father  as  he  left 
the  stoop  with  the  boys,  "Come  along  and  see  me  dive, 
dad;  yer  don't  believe  I  can." 

To-night  he  had  been  thinking  of  that  evening  long 
ago.  Perhaps  it  was  the  coming  of  that  great  mystery, 
Death,  into  the  house  that  brought  it  back.  He  watched 
Jimmy  and  his  companions  out  of  sight;  his  own 
boy  coming  back  beckoned  him  to  follow.  A  little  while 
after  he  saw  some  of  the  boys,  but  Jimmy  was  not 


8  THE  STORY  OF 

with  them.  He  never  knew  who  told  him,  but  he 
remembered  going  to  the  raft  and  beating  the  waters 
of  the  river  until  he  was  brought  back  to  Margaret  lying 
white  and  still  on  the  bed  in  the  other  room.  She  never 
was  the  same  again.  For  months  he  could  not  rouse 
himself  from  the  awful  stillness  in  which  he  listened  for 
Jimmy's  step.  The  father  found  himself  sullen,  angry, 
rebellious,  when  he,  evening  after  evening,  saw  the  other 
boys  playing,  then  working  and  now  coming  back  with 
their  own  babies  to  the  fathers  still  living  on  the  block. 
Nor  was  this  awful  loneliness  his  only  burden.  He  re- 
membered his  return  from  work  years  ago  to  find  Mar- 
garet sleeping  on  the  lounge,  her  face  swollen  and  pur- 
ple. He  was  frightened.  He  leaned  over  her,  when  the 
terrible  truth  came  to  him  which  all  in  the  neighborhood 
had  known  for  months.  He  cried  as  he  never  had  be- 
fore. Her  beautiful  brown  hair  lay  damp  and  thick  on 
her  forehead ;  her  hands  hung  down,  brown  and  hard — 
hard  from  work,  work  that  kept  his  home  clean  and 
tidy;  even  now  her  dress  was  neat,  and  a  white  collar, 
the  mark  of  distinction  in  that  neighborhood,  was  about 
her  neck. 

As  he  sat  beside  her  that  night — having  barred  the 
door  lest  any  one  should  see  her,  he  lived  over  the  three 
years  since  Jimmy  had  turned  the  corner  waving  his 
hand.  He  saw  his  own  selfishness.  He  had  never  realized 
her  hours  of  loneliness,  when  it  was  not  only  the  boy  who 
had  gone  out  of  her  life,  but  all  the  busy  hours  when  she 
worked  for  the  boy.  How  proud  she  was  when  she  fin- 
ished the  first  pair  of  "pants"  for  the  boy,  made  out  of 
his  father's  old  ones!  He  saw  her  shining  eyes  as  he 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY  9 

recalled  that  evening.  As  he  stood  beside  that  lounge 
he  knew  that  for  the  life  failure  of  his  boy's  mother  he 
must  bear  the  blame.  The  world  about  him  would  con- 
demn her,  but  he  knew  he  had  added  the  burden  of  his 
own  sorrow  and  loneliness  to  hers,  never,  even  by  a 
word,  helping  to  lighten  it.  Now,  after  all  these  years, 
when  he  had  learned  to  come  home  uncertain  how  he 
would  find  her  she  had  appealed  to  him  to  help  a  boy, 
forgetting  how  he  hated  all  boys.  Perhaps  it  would  have 
kept  her  if  he  had  let  her  have  the  neighbor's  children 
in;  she  had  until  his  curtness  to  her  and  them  had 
driven  them  away. 

As  Margaret  stood  with  her  arm  about  the  boy  sob- 
bing against  her,  the  face  that  had  lost  its  beauty  even 
for  him  was  for  a  moment  beautiful  in  its  womanly 
pity  and  motherliness.  "Come  here,  Jack,"  he  heard 
himself  saying,  surprised  himself  at  the  tone. 

Margaret  led  the  boy  over  to  him.  Pat  got  up  and 
Jack  found  himself  in  his  big  wooden  rocker.  Mr. 
Donohue  was  rustling  papers  in  the  closet  while  his 
wife  was  fussing  near  the  stove.  The  boy  looked  out 
dumbly  at  the  river.  He  saw  only  the  white  face  on  the 
pillows  upstairs.  He  was  alone.  No  one  in  all  the  world 
cared  for  him.  What  would  he  do?  Where  would  he 
go?  His  head  dropped  on  his  arms  crossed  on  the  sill. 

After  a  little  while  Mrs.  Donohue  put  her  arm  about 
him,  saying  softly,  "Come,  me  boy,  come,  I've  got  some 
supper  for  yer ;  I  got  pancakes."  Her  husband  started. 
That  was  what  Margaret  always  made  for  Jimmy  after 
she  punished  him.  Pat  watched  her  furtively.  Her 
face  was  lighted  up  with  interest,  and  she  stepped  back 


10  THE  STORY  OF 

and  forth  as  she  had  not  in  years.  She  disappeared  in 
the  bedroom  returning  with  her  hair  smooth,  wearing  a 
clean  collar  and  apron. 

"Come,  dear,  come,"  she  coaxed  going  over  to  Jack; 
"come  now,  I'll  cook  while  you'll  eat,  and  see  which  of 
us'll  get  tired  first.  I'll  bet  you  will,  don't  you,  Pat? 
Pat  knows  I  love  to  cook  pancakes." 

The  years  disappeared,  and  the  father  and  mother 
gazed  as  of  old  into  each  other's  faces,  but  with  another 
boy  between  them,  having  eyes  and  hair  like  his  mother's. 

Mrs.  Donohue  turned  and  went  into  the  pantry,  busied 
among  the  dishes,  she  crossed  the  room  and  whis- 
pered to  her  husband,  putting  something  in  his  hand. 
Pat  smiled  up  at  her.  Margaret  caught  her  breath  and 
turned  to  the  stove.  How  it  came  back.  The  boy  in 
the  rocker  by  the  window  with  tear-stained  face,'  the 
frame  of  a  kite  which  was  to  win  back  the  smiles,  and 
the  cakes  to  prove  that  the  mother  had  punished  because 
she  must;  she  couldn't  have  her  boy  like  some  of  the 
others.  With  a  deft  twist  she  turned  the  cakes  and 
wiped  her  eyes,  smiling  at  her  husband. 

Had  a  miracle  been  wrought  in  this  home  of  quiet 
estrangement?  Pat  was  dazed,  crushed  his  hat  on  his 
head  and  went  down  stairs;  he  returned  carrying  a 
brown  paper. 

"There  now!  Look  at  that,  me  boy!  Brown  sugar 
for  yer  cakes !  Shure  you'll  come,  acushla."  The  clean 
apron  was  passed  quickly  over  her  face.  Pat  was  turned 
squarely  in  his  chair  to  the  window.  Mrs.  Donohue  went 
over  to  Jack,  and  putting  her  arms  around  him,  she  said, 
"Cry,  me  boy,  cry;  it  may  save  yer  from  worse.  Know 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY  11 

this,  ye'll  not  go  on  the  street  while  me  and  Pat  have  a 
home.  Mattie  and  her  husband  is  young,  and  don't 
know  how  to  take  a  boy  that  had  only  his  mother.  Me 
and  Pat  will  stand  by  yer.  Ye're  a  good  boy  to  them  as 
knows  how  to  take  yer.  Come,  dear,  and  ate  something. 
Be  then  yer  can  see  yer  mother,  and  ye  won't  feel  so 
lonely.  Jack,  dear/'  she  was  speaking  slowly,  "ye  didn't 
know  it,"  she  stopped.  Slowly  again  she  began,  "Do  you 
know  that  we  had  a  boy — me  and  Pat,  just  yer  age. 
Shure  the  neighbors  haggled  and  hetcheled  him  just 
as  they  do  you,  bekase  ye're  smarter  than  their  own  byes. 
It's  that  that  made  me  take  to  yer."  The  corner  of  her 
apron  was  passed  over  her  face  again.  Pat  still  stared 
out  of  the  window,  his  brawny  hands  grasping  the  arms 
of  the  chair.  Jack  was  leaning  against  the  broad 
motherly  bosom  sobbing.  Boy  as  he  was,  it  was  not  the 
sense  of  loneliness  and  loss  alone  that  racked  him,  but 
a  sudden  remembering  of  the  hours  he  should  have  been 
with  his  mother  when  he  was  not;  of  things  done  that 
should  not  have  been  done,  and  those  undone  that  should 
have  been  done.  Who  has  not  lived  through  those  hours 
echoing  over  and  over  the  bitter  cry ; 

"  How  far  and  safe,  God, 
Dost  Thou  keep  Thy  saints, 
When  once  gone  from  us  I 
We  may  call  against 

The  lighted  windows  of  Thy  fair  June-heaven, 
Where  all  the  souls  are  happy  and  not  one, 
Not  even  my  father,  looks  from  work  or  play 
To  ask :  '  Who  is  it  that  cries  after  us 
Below  there  in  the  dusk  ?' " 

Jack  did  not  voice  his  crying. 

The  mother  without  a  boy,  and  the  boy  without  a 


12  THE  STORY   OP 

mother,  clasped  each  other  in  the  desperation  of  a  love 
that  had  lost  so  many  opportunities. 

"Hush,  there,  Jack,"  she  was  whispering,  for  the 
figure  in  the  chair  by  the  window  had  moved,  and  the 
Margaret  of  this  moment  was  the  sensitive  Margaret  of 
long  ago,  who  knew  the  language  of  every  motion  of  the 
strong,  loyal,  patient,  silent  man  about  whom  sorrow 
had  built  a  wall  to  which  she  had  never  found  the  gate. 
The  face  above  Jack's  had  dropped  lower,  and  the 
cheeks  more  flushed;  the  bosom  on  which  Jack  leaned 
heaved  so  that  Jack  raised  his  head  and  looked  in  Mar- 
garet's face.  His  arm  went  suddenly  round  the  woman's 
neck ;  she  sank  to  her  knees  against  him  sobbing. 

"Maggie,  dear."  She  raised  her  head.  It  was  Pat 
who  spoke. 

"Maggie,  dear,  shure  we'll  have  'im  back  in  Jack.  It's 
lonesome  you've  been,  and  I  didn't  know  it.  God  forgive 
me.  It's  me  own  fault  givin'  way  to  the  silent  devil  in 
me.  Git  up,  Maggie,  and  cook  the  cakes  for  the  bye, 
'twill  hearten  ye." 

"Oh  Pat !  Pat !  I  didn't  mane  to.  It  was  so  still 
and  me  wid  nothin'  to  do.  I  won't,  Pat!  I  won't 
again." 

Jack  straightened.  He  knew,  and  now  was  his  chance. 
He  did  not  speak,  but  the  man  and  boy  looked  in  each 
other's  eyes  and  the  bond  was  signed  in  unwritten  char- 
acters between  them. 

"Come,  Maggie,  the  pan  is  burning  and  the  boy  is 
starving,  shure  you'll  not  be  lonely  wid  dis  bye  to  tramp 
in  on  yer." 

Mrs.  Donohue  stood  up,  her  eyes  full  of  love,  and  her 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY  13 

mouth  still  beautiful,  tremulous,  she  hurried  to  the 
stove  and  began  again  to  cook  the  cakes.  This  time  she 
buttered  each  one  hot  and  then  spread  the  sugar  thick, 
laying  one  over  the  other.  She  passed  to  the  table,  set- 
ting another  plate. 

"Come,  now,  both  of  yez;  I  can  cook  faster  than  ye 
both  can  eat." 

Pat  turned  his  chair  to  the  table,  and  the  two,  man 
and  boy,  feeling  the  bond  between  them,  smiled  at  each 
other,  and  the  woman,  with  shining  eyes  by  the  stove. 

"It's  many  a  day  since  I  made  a  kite,  but  I  ain't 
forgot,  I'll  bet  yer.  It's  a  good  arm  ye  have,  Jack,  to 
fly  a  kite.  It's  a  bit  thrying  till  yer  know  the  thricks. 
Did  yer  ever  fly  a  kite?" 

"Not  a  big  wan,  just  penny  wans." 

"Yer  kin  do  it,  I'll  bet." 

The  ice  was  broken,  and  the  hours  when  father  and 
mother  watched  their  boy  flying  a  kite,  performing  won- 
derful feats  of  daring  in  jumping  from  lumber  pile  to 
lumber  pile  in  the  yard  opposite,  returned  to  be  lived 
over  again. 

Jack  bravely  tried  to  eat,  but  when  he  remembered 
that  in  the  weeks  past  the  quiet  mother  upstairs  had  been 
often  hungry,  the  food  choked  him. 

Mr.  Donohue  saw  the  fight  with  tears,  the  effort  to 
pay  his  wife  for  her  kindness. 

"There,  now,  Maggie ;  ye  did  bate  us.  Not  a  bite  more 
kin  we  ate." 

Surprised,  she  turned  from  the  stove.  At  a  glance 
she  read  her  husband's  thought  as  he  looked  at  Jack. 


14  THE   STORY   OF 

Her  lips  were  closed  tightly  for  a  moment,  then  she 
spoke  cheerfully: 

"  'Tis  well  ye  are,  for  the  batter  is  gone  most/'  she 
pushed  the  pan  back  and  began  clearing  the  table,  talk- 
ing fast  as  she  moved  about.  Pat  followed  her  every 
movement,  and  she  trembled  as  she  realized  it. 

Jack  vras  looking  out  of  the  window.  If  only  he 
dared,  he'd  cut  and  run  for  his  own  room.  How  could 
he  get  out?  He  had  never  sat  in  anybody's  house  so 
long  in  his  life.  How  he  wanted  to  go  to  his  own  home, 
or  out  in  the  street.  Not  then,  he  thought,  for  the  boys 
would  know.  No,  he  must  stay,  for  all  those  women 
were  in  his  own  house.  He  knew  how  they  crowded  in 
and  sat  about  when  death  came  in  other  homes.  Yes, 
they  would  do  the  same  in  his.  A  great  lump  rose  in 
his  throat  and  the  tears  dropped  on  his  jacket.  If  only 
they  would  go  away  and  leave  him  with  his  mother. 
He  wasn't  afraid.  He'd  tell,  yes,  he  would  tell  her  how 
sorry  he  was  for  not  hurrying  upstairs  with  the  pitcher 
of  water  last  night  when  she  wanted  a  drink.  Jack 
put  his  hand  to  his  throat,  it  ached.  If  only  she  would 
hear  him  he'd  tell  her  how  sorry  he  was  that  he  did 
not  take  home  that  bundle  of  work  she  had  carried  in  the 
rain.  He  shuddered  as  he  remembered  that  she  had  not 
sat  up  all  day  since  that  day  a  week  ago.  He  meant  to 
remember  to  come  home  in  time  to  do  it,  but  Billy 
Gilligan  had  let  him  ride  on  his  truck,  and  then  he  let 
him  hold  the  reins,  and  then  Billy  got  so  full  he  couldn't 
sit  up,  and  Jack  dare  not  leave  him.  When  he  did  get 
home  his  mother  had  gone  out  in  the  rain.  There  was 
one  comfort,  he  gave  her  the  quarter  Billy  Gilligan 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY  15 

gave  him  the  next  day,  he  hadn't  kept  a  cent.  He  might 
have  earned  more  money  if  only  he'd  tried  harder. 
Again  his  throat  hurt  him.  How  tired  he  was!  He 
wanted  to  lie  down  beside  his  mother. 

There  was  a  knock,  and  all  three  started. 

"Come  in." 

In  response,  Tom  opened  the  door. 

"Excuse  me,  Mrs.  Donohue,  for  laving  Jack  on  yer 
hands  so  long.  I  couldn't  lave  Mattie  wid  the  baby,  she's 
that  broke  up.  Shure  she  cried  herself  to  slape,  and  me 
mither's  got  the  baby.  Come,  Jack,  come  home  wid 
me  now." 

"Shure,  Tom,  ye  needn't  worry.  We  were  countin'  on 
yer  lettin'  him  stay  wid  us.  We've  always  had  the  little 
room  beyant."  It  was  Maggie  in  her  most  winsome 
mood  who  was  talking.  "Shure  we've  got  more  room 
for  the  big  feller  there  than  you  and  Mamie  have,  and 
it's  glad  we'd  be  to  kape  him." 

"No,  Mrs.  Donohue,  thank  ye  kindly.  His  mother 
spoke  to  me  before  she  died  askin'  me  to  look  out  for 
him,  and  I  promised.  Come  along,  Jack,"  and  Tom 
stepped  toward  him. 

"Perhaps,  Tom,  ye'd  lave  him  wid  us  to-night,  or 
maybe  till  after  the  funeral.  He's  used  to  this  house, 
and  it  won't  be  so  hard  on  him.  Lave  him  wid  us, 
Tom." 

"No,  Mrs.  Donohue,  Mamie  wants  him  to  look  after 
the  baby;  shure  she  won't  be  able  to,  what  wid  sittin* 
up  and  all.  Come,  Jack.  I  told  me  mother  you'd  come 
back  wid  me  to  take  care  of  the  baby  so  she  could  get 


16  THE   STORY   OF 

ready  for  the  wake.  Ye're  comin',  you  and  Mr.  Dono- 
hue?" 

"No,  Tom ;  I'll  take  care  of  the  baby  here  if  ye'll  lave 
Jack  wid  Pat,  at  laist  till  the  funeral  be  over." 

Tom  saw  the  advantage  of  this  arrangement  for 
Mattie,  and  accepted  Mrs.  Donohue's  hospitality.  When 
the  door  closed  she  turned  triumphantly  to  Pat. 

"'Twas  coaxin'  ways  ye  always  had  wid  yer,"  was 
Pat's  smiling  comment. 

Pat  had  kept  Jack  with  him,  while  his  wife  had  gone 
back  and  forth  with  the  fretting  baby  to  its  mother. 

In  spite  of  his  loneliness  Jack  was  conscious  of  a 
sense  of  comfort.  It  was  very  pleasant  to  go  to  sleep 
in  a  clean  bed,  with  a  pillow  instead  of  a  coat  under  his 
head.  It  did  seem  strange  to  take  off  your  clothes  and 
take  a  wash  at  night  in  spite  of  the  swim  with  Pat 
in  the  early  morning  off  the  dock.  It  was  nice  to  have 
your  clothes  clean  in  the  morning.  To  have  a  breakfast 
hot  and  good ;  to  eat  off  a  clean  plate  on  a  white-covered 
table ;  to  find  the  house  always  in  order,  and  Mrs.  Dono- 
hue  so  clean  and  cheerful. 

When  Jack  thought  of  Mrs.  Donohue  he  was  greatly 
puzzled.  She  had  not  asked  him  to  go  for  a  pint  once 
since  he  lived  with  her.  He  would  not  go.  Pat  and  he 
understood  that,  but  she  had  not  asked  him.  It  was 
only  three  days,  but  it  seemed  weeks  to  the  boy.  At 
last  it  was  the  day  of  the  funeral. 

The  attic  room  was  crowded.  Tom  and  Mattie  had 
taken  possession.  It  seemed  far  less  like  home  than 
Mrs.  Donohue's. 

Where  was  his  mother's  bed?    And  her  machine? 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY  17 

He  could  not  see  them.  The  hair  trunk  with  brass  nails 
that  his  mother  said  her  father  had  brought  from  Ireland, 
that  was  gone.  Then  Jack  realized  that  he  had  lost 
not  only  a  mother  but  a  home.  Jack  had  not  thought 
of  such  a  possibility.  He  knew  now  that  he  had  been 
planning  to  pay  the  rent  to  keep  the  room  as  his 
mother  had  kept  it.  He  looked  about  searchingly.  The 
bed  was  gone,  the  stove,  the  looking-glass  his  mother 
had  just  finished  paying  for  on  the  installment  plan. 
And  the  clock,  his  mother  had  bought  that,  too,  on  the 
installment  plan,  and  he  had  helped  her  pay  for  it.  Now 
it  was  gone.  In  the  height  of  his  silent  wrath  and  in- 
dignation a  wail  rent  the  air.  Jack  jumped.  Mrs. 
Donohue  took  his  hand.  Again  a  shriek  that  tore 
through  his  ears  was  followed  by  other  cries  and  out- 
spoken words.  "Poor  thing,  it's  her  mother." 

Jack  looked,  a  small  woman  in  a  black  dress  with  a 
long  black  veil  covering  her  face  was  leaning  over  the 
coffin,  which  for  the  first  time  he  dared  to  look  at.  Was 
that  Mattie?  Again  a  shriek  broke  on  the  air,  and 
Tom  leaned  over  the  woman  in  the  black  dress,  putting 
his  arm  around  her.  She  cried  and  shrieked  and  threw 
herself  on  the  coffin,  the  women  crowding  about  her, 
some  crying  loudly,  some  trying  to  comfort  her. 

Jack  could  not  move.  The  tumult  and  confusion  grew 
worse.  He  was  so  confused  he  could  not  think.  He 
tried  to  ask  Mrs.  Donohue  to  go  down  stairs  with  him, 
anywhere  out  of  this  awful  din.  But  no  one  noticed  him. 
The  centre  of  interest  was  about  the  shrieking,  moaning 
woman.  There  was  a  movement,  and  the  group  parted 


18  THE  STORY  OF 

to  let  a  man  who  moved  in  a  business-like  way  enter  the 
room. 

Suddenly  Mrs.  Donohue  came  hurrying  in,  "The  bye ! 
Shure  the  bye  must  see  his  mother." 

He  felt  as  if  he  were  frozen.  Mrs.  Donohue  took  his 
hand,  but  he  would  not  move.  He  looked  in  her  face 
pleadingly.  He  could  not,  he  would  not  look  at  his 
mother  with  all  those  people  about.  "Come,  dear." 
Jack  clung  to  the  chair. 

"Come,  now,"  it  was  Tom  who  spoke;  "come,  now, 
none  of  yer  ugliness.  We  can't  wait  here  till  dark/' 

Tom  reached  out  as  if  to  take  Jack  by  the  shoulder, 
but  a  detaining  hand  was  laid  on  his  arm,  and  a  low 
firm  voice  said : 

"Let  the  bye  alone.  He'll  not  forget  his  mother."  It 
was  Mr.  Donohue  in  his  Sunday  clothes.  Mrs.  Donohue 
looked  in  amazement  at  him,  and  then  with  a  timid 
touch,  she  said:  "God  bless  yer,  Pat;  I  was  scared  he'd 
grab  the  bye;  his  heart  is  broke  now." 

Tom  glared  at  the  boy,  "He  never  had  a  heart  in  him," 
was  his  comment  as  he  turned  away,  "he  refuses  to  look 
at  his  dead  mother." 

Mr.  Donohue  laid  his  big  hand  on  Jack's  shoulder, 
Tom  did  not  speak  again.  The  company  was  divided, 
and  a  bare  stretch  of  floor  was  between  the  partisans. 
Mattie  and  her  husband  were  surrounded  by  friends ; 
Jack  had  two. 

The  coffin  was  lifted,  but  Mr.  Donohue  was  not  given 
the  honor  of  helping  to  carry  it  down  stairs.  He  had 
espoused  the  cause  of  the  boy  who  had  not  cried  at  his 
mother's  funeral.  The  neighbors  expected  a  higher 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY  19 

sense  and  appreciation  of  the  fitness  of  things,  and  the 
eitquette  of  the  occasion  from  Mrs.  Donohue,  whose 
neighborly  interest,  experience,  and  decision  had  set- 
tled many  disputed  points  on  like  occasions.  Tom  beck- 
oned to  his  own  mother  to  follow  Mattie  and  himself. 
Mrs.  Donohue  was  shocked,  and  moved  forward  as  if  to 
protest  against  the  discourtesy  to  Jack,  who,  as  every- 
body knew,  ought  to  ride  with  his  own  sister. 

"No,  Maggie,  we'll  keep  the  bye  with  us.  I  got  a 
carriage  meself  the  mornin'." 

Mrs.  Donohue's  head  rose,  she  stood  straight  and 
proud  beside  the  boy  and  her  husband. 

"Come,  Jack;  you've  got  yer  friends,  and  yer  ain't 
beholden  even  to  yer  own." 

But  Pat  was  not  going  to  have  a  scene.  He  looked  at 
Maggie,  and  the  proud  head  lowered  as  she  followed  his 
glance  to  the  boy,  white  and  still,  in  the  chair. 

"When  they're  gone  down  the  stairs,  Jack,  me  bye, 
we'll  go." 

When  the  last  carriage  was  filled  the  boy  came  down 
the  stairs  out  into  the  sunlight. 

"God  help  him."  It  was  a  woman  in  the  crowd  who 
spoke;  "his  best  friend  is  gone;  she  always  stood  by 
him." 

Jack  looked  into  the  faces  of  the  crowd,  even  the  blue- 
coated  policeman  drew  his  hand  across  his  eyes  as  the 
boy  came  out  of  the  door.  It  was  the  memory  of  his 
own  experience  when  he,  too,  stood  alone  to  fight  his 
way,  that  brought  the  tears  so  near  the  kindly  blue 
eyes. 

"He's  not  a  bad  one.    I'll  keep  him  out  of  mischief. 


20  THE   STORY   OF 

Tom  is  mighty  handy  with  his  fists.  I'll  hint  to  him 
that  he'd  better  go  light  on  the  boy." 

Jack  looked  at  Mr.  Donohue.  The  old  man's  eyes 
were  filled  with  tears  now  slowly  dropping.  For  the 
first  time  Jack  cried,  the  tears  shutting  out  the  crowd. 
He  felt  himself  lifted  into  a  carriage  and  heard  the 
door  close.  About  him  were  two  strong  motherly  arms 
and  his  head  rested  on  a  heaving  bosom,  a  crooning  voice 
saying  softly,  "There,  acushla,  cry;  'twill  do  you  good," 
while  tears  fell  on  his  cheek. 

"Ye're  not  alone,  me  bye ;  me  and  Maggie  is  f er  yer. 
Don't  yer  be  afeared.  We  got  a  room  fer  yer,  and  you 
can  stay  wid  us." 

"Oh  Pat!"  Maggie's  tears  fell  faster  as  she  rocked 
back  and  forth,  holding  Jack  fast  in  her  arms.  The 
carriage  moved  slowly  on,  crossing  the  ferry.  Once 
across  the  river  the  pace  was  quickened,  until  the  tolling 
of  the  bell  told  that  the  cemetery  was  near.  The  car- 
riage stopped.  Jack  left  the  carriage  and  found  him- 
self in  a  dark,  forbidding  room  filled  with  bare  wooden 
benches,  several  coffins  rested  on  a  platform  before  the 
altar ;  there  was  one  vacant  place.  Groups  of  people  sat 
here  and  there  waiting.  A  sob  broke  the  stillness  now 
and  then.  Jack  at  last  realized  that  those  about  him 
were  his  neighbors;  that  Mattie  and  Tom  sat  on  the 
bench  up  near  the  front. 

There  was  a  rustle  and  movement  outside  the  door, 
and  another  coffin  was  placed  on  the  platform.  Another 
group  of  people  came  in,  one  a  feeble-looking  woman 
carrying  a  baby  and  followed  by  three  children,  one 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY  21 

clinging  in  a  terrified  silence  to  her  dress.  Her  eyes 
were  fastened  on  the  last  coffin. 

The  altar  boy  hurried  out,  lighted  two  candles  on 
the  altar,  disappeared  and  returned  bearing  a  swinging 
censer  and  followed  by  a  priest.  There  was  the  fragrant 
odor  from  the  soft  hanging  smoke  that  floated  over  the 
heads  of  the  people,  the  sound  of  the  priest's  voice  sweet- 
ly chanting  the  service,  and  then  a  general  movement 
as  each  group  of  mourners  followed  a  coffin  out  into  the 
sunshine.  Again  Jack  was  in  a  carriage  and  moving 
over  the  smooth  roads.  Far  from  the  gate  in  a  lonely 
corner  Jack  stood  beside  an  open  grave.  Again  his 
sister  shrieked  and  cried,  almost  covering  the  sound  of 
the  falling  clods.  At  last  all  was  over  and  Jack  was 
going  back,  to  what?  He  did  not  know.  He  got  out 
of  the  carriage  at  the  door,  the  centre  of  interest  to  a 
group  of  children,  some  his  special  friends.  His  chum, 
Mike  Brady,  gave  him  an  apple.  He  followed  Mr. 
Donohue  up  stairs,  Mrs.  Donohue  came  in  after  a  time 
bearing  several  brown  paper  bundles. 

"It's  starved  ye  are  this  minute,  and  ye'll  be  eating 
in  a  jiffy.  Beefsteak  and  onions.  Pat,  do  ye  mind  how 
Jimmy  loved  them?"  A  nod  and  a  smile  was  the  re- 
sponse from  the  man  in  the  rocker  by  the  window,  di- 
viding his  attention  between  the  river  and  the  boy  sitting 
leaning  his  arms  on  the  window-sill  at  the  other  end  of 
the  table.  Soon  there  was  a  sputtering  and  the  sound 
of  cooking.  Over  the  black  dress  Mrs.  Donohue  had 
tied  an  apron;  her  cheeks  were  flushed,  her  eyes  bright. 
Now  and  then  Mr.  Donohue  followed  the  figure  moving 


22  THE   STORY   OF 

from  stove  to  closet  and  closet  to  table,  a  smile  forming 
about  his  mouth. 

"Come,  now,  draw  up  yer  chairs.  The  pertaties  is 
done,  and  the  steak  and  onions  are  ready.  Come,  Jack, 
dear,  come;  it's  starved  ye  are  this  minute." 

Jack  turned  to  the  table  and  met  two  pairs  of  eyes  full 
of  love,  looking  anxiously  at  him.  He  sat  down  at  the 
place  made  for  him.  He  did  not  understand  the  glance 
exchanged  between  his  host  and  hostess.  They  were 
thinking  of  the  last  time  a  boy  had  sat  where  he  was 
sitting.  As  his  plate  was  filled  there  was  a  knock  at  the 
door,  and  Tom  strode  in  angry  and  frowning. 

"Git  up  and  come  where  yer  belong,"  was  his  greet- 
ing. "Yer  have  no  call  to  be  spongin'  on  the  neighbors. 
Git  along,  Mattie  is  waitin'  fer  yer." 

Jack  stood  up.  "I'll  never  go  wid  yer.  Yer  took  me 
mother's  tings,  what  she  and  me  worked  fer,  yer  tief ." 

Mr.  Donohue  stood  up  and  laid  his  hand  on  the  boy's 
shoulder.  "Hush,  Jack,  Mattie  had  a  right  to  the 
things;  they  were  hers,  shure,  as  much  as  yours.  Yer 
must  be  civil." 

Tom  had  sprung  toward  the  boy  before  he  finished 
speaking,  but  the  towering  form  beside  the  boy  changed 
his  intention. 

"Dere  not  hers;  me  and  me  mother  paid  for  them. 
We'd  never  had  them  if  she'd  been  home,  for  she  took 
every  cent  for  her  togs.  Tom  did  swipe  them,  dey's  gone, 
and  no  one  else  dare." 

Again  Tom  sprang  forward,  and  again  Mr.  Donohue 
stood  in  front  of  the  boy,  this  time  commanding  him  to 
silence  in  a  voice  that  forced  each  to  keep  quiet. 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY  23 

"Tom,  lave  the  bye  with  me ;  ye  have  all  ye  can  do  to 
take  care  of  Mattie  and  the  baby.  Ye  don't  get  on  with 
Jack,  and  neither  does  Mattie.  We  have  room  for  him ; 
there's  no  one  in  the  room  in  there.  Maggie  likes  the 
bye  and  he  likes  her.  I  never  had  any  trouble  with  him, 
I  never  will.  Leave  him  here."  The  men  stood  looking 
at  each  other,  one  pleadingly,  the  other  defiantly.  The 
boy  stood  with  his  hand  clenched,  waiting  for  what 
would  be  to  him  doom. 

"Tom,  ye  don't  need  him."  It  was  Mrs.  Donohue  who 
spoke;  "ye  have  a  bye  that'll  be  as  big  as  him  before  ye 
know  it.  Ye'll  have  more  most  likely.  I  hope  ye  will, 
for  it's  terrible  to  have  but  one  and  him  taken  from  ye." 
Maggie  came  close  to  her  husband  and  leaned  her  head 
against  him,  sobbing.  Her  husband  pressed  her  hand, 
and,  with  a  trembling  voice,  continued  Maggie's  plea : 

"We  have  no  one.  Me  pay  is  good,  and  me  job  sure. 
We  can  take  care  of  the  bye  and  you  cannot,  ye  may  be 
out  to-morrow.  Leave  Jack  with  Maggie  and  me." 

"It's  mighty  generous  ye  are.  It  won't  be  long  till 
he's  workin'  and  his  wages  won't  be  nothin'." 

"Ye  villain,"  screamed  Maggie;  "to  say  that  to  Pat. 
Hit  him,  Pat.  What  has  he  been  all  his  life  but  a 
loafer,  gettin'  the  best  of  them  as  doesn't  know  him  ?" 

"Maggie,  keep  still !  Let  the  bye  say  who  he'll  stay 
with." 

Jack  had  listened.  Now  his  eyes  were  flashing,  but 
something  in  the  quiet  dignity  of  Mr.  Donohue  ap- 
pealed to  the  boy.  He  was  outwardly  quiet,  and  his 
voice  low,  as  he  answered : 

"I'll  never  go  wid  Tom,  Mr.  Donohue.    I  know  Mat- 


24  THE   STORY   OF 

tie  will  leave  the  kid  wid  me,  and  run  the  streets  like 
she  always  does.  I'll  stay  wid  you,  and  work  and  pay 
for  me  grub.  Me  mother  said  I  did  more'n  dat.  I  know 
I  can  get  a  job  regular.  I'll  work  like  you,  Mr.  Donohue. 
I  won't  bum  as  Tom  does,  I'll  work  steady  like  you,  Mr. 
Donohue.  I  won't  be  like  Tom." 

There  was  a  blow,  and  Jack  was  on  the  floor,  his  head 
in  Mrs.  Donohue's  lap. 

There  was  a  scuffle  and  the  door  was  shut.  When  Jack 
sat  up  Mr.  Donohue  was  standing  over  him  rubbing  the 
knuckles  of  his  right  hand.  Jack  felt  sick  and  dizzy, 
and  wondered  why. 

After  a  time  there  was  another  knock  at  the  door  and 
the  big  policeman  came  in.  Jack  grew  white  with  fear, 
but  the  policeman's  smile  reassured  him. 

Mr.  Donohue  stood  up. 

"He  struck  the  bye,  Charlie,  and  laid  him  out,  and 
I  struck  him." 

"I  know,  Pat,  I  know ;  but  ye'll  have  a  lot  of  trouble, 
you  and  yer  wife,  if  ye  keep  the  boy  now.  Let  him  go 
with  Tom;  he  won't  stay;  we  all  know  Tom.  It's  Mat- 
tie  that  is  putting  him  up  to  it;  she  wants  the  boy  to 
mind  the  kid.  I  see  through  them  both.  The  boy 
won't  mind  the  kid;  he's  too  little  to  get  a  job,  and 
Tom'll  kick  him  out.  Let  him  come  to  yer  then.  But 
there'll  be  trouble  fer  you  and  fer  him.  Tom  is  setting 
on  his  gang.  Let  me  take  the  boy  to  him  now  and  stop 
the  throuble." 

"I  won't  go  wid  Tom,  I  won't."  Jack  stood  fearlessly 
before  the  policeman. 

"Jack,  ye  won't  have  to  stay.    Ye'll  make  it  so  hot  for 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY  25 

them  they'll  put  ye  out,  never  fear.  I  know  you  and 
I  know  them.  You  come  along  with  me.  If  yer  don't, 
Pat  will  have  throuble.  Tom  is  ugly,  and  he's  got  a 
mark  on  his  face  he'll  carry  for  many  a  day.  He'll  make 
Pat  a  lot  of  throuble,  and  he  can  wid  that  face ;  shure  yer 
don't  want  that." 

Jack  pulled  his  hat  down  on  his  head,  and  without 
looking  at  either  husband  or  wife,  he  gave  his  hand  to 
the  policeman.  Not  a  word  was  spoken  until  the  door 
was  closed. 

"Oh  Pat !  It  was  like  having  Jimmy  back,"  Maggie 
was  wringing  her  hands. 

Pat  stood  irresolute,  and  then  opened  his  arms.  For 
the  first  time  in  years  Maggie  felt  her  husband's  arms 
about  her.  When  she  was  quiet  at  last  she  raised  her 
head  and  whispered : 

"It  was  because  I  was  so  lonesome  widout  him,  Pat. 
I'll  thry,  God  knows,  I'll  thry  to  stop.  Don't  be  so 
quiet  wid  me,  Pat ;  it's  very  lonesome  all  day,  not  a  soul 
to  come  in  a-whistlin'  and  makin'  work.  Don't  be  so 
quiet  wid  me." 

"Poor  Maggie.  Shure,  I  ought  to  have  known.  Ye've 
broke  me  heart,  Maggie.  It's  worse  than  losing  the 
boy  to  see  yer.  Don't  do  it,  it  makes  nothin'  better." 
His  wife  was  sobbing  while  his  tears  fell  on  her  beauti- 
ful hair. 

In  the  meantime  Jack  was  going  with  the  policeman, 
who  again  and  again  drove  back  the  idle,  curious  crowd. 

"Didn't  he  give  it  to  Tom?" 

"Won't  Tom  baste  him?" 


26  THE   STORY   OF 

"Shure  it's  cute  the  Donohues  thought  themselves  to 
keep  the  boy  and  get  his  wages." 

"God  help  him,  left  in  the  clutches  of  them  two ;  Tom 
will  bate  the  life  out  of  him  for  nothin'  at  all.  He's 
the  only  thing  he  can  lick  and  not  get  thumped  for  it. 
Mattie  would  scratch  the  eyes  out  of  him  if  he  touched 
her." 

"Holy  Mother,  protect  him !  His  mother  was  a  good 
woman." 

These  were  the  comments  that  fell  on  Jack's  ears  on 
his  way  to  Tom's  home.  One  thought  only  was  in  his 
mind.  He  would  not  stay;  they'd  be  glad  to  put  him 
out.  He'd  be  back  to  Mr.  Donohue  as  soon  as  Tom's  face 
was  well.  He  thrilled  with  joy  at  the  thought  of  Tom's 
having  to  be  seen  with  a  broken  face." 

The  policeman  knew  Jack  as  a  type,  and  though  not 
a  mind-reader,  he  read  the  thoughts  of  the  boy  beside 
him.  As  they  entered  the  street  door  of  the  house  where 
Tom  lived,  the  policeman  closed  it.  Turning  to  Jack, 
he  said: 

"Now  I  want  yer  to  know  I'm  just  as  much  yer 
friend  as  Pat.  I'll  do  what  I  can  fer  yer.  I  knew  yer 
mother  when  she  was  no  bigger  than  yerself .  All  her  life 
she  was  a  good  woman  as  there  is  in  the  ward.  Yer 
father  was  a  bum,  worse  nor  Tom.  Don't  you  be  like 
him.  Yer  mother  went  to  his  funeral  wid  the  mark  of 
his  fist  on  her  face,  and  his  boot  all  over  her,  she  could 
scarcely  walk.  I  saw  her,  and  was  sorry  enough  I  had 
not  run  him  in  that  day  before  he  had  a  chance  at  her. 
He  broke  his  neck  goin'  down  stairs  after  another  drink, 
and  it  was  a  good  thing  for  everybody. 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY  27 

"I'll  not  let  Tom  abuse  yer.  He  knows  that.  I  know 
something  that'd  put  him  behind  the  bars.  It's  a  good 
thing  to  have  a  hold  on  such  fellers,  it  keeps  them  in 
order  better'n  shutting  them  up.  I'll  have  a  talk  with 
him  after  I  take  yer  up." 

They  entered  the  rooms  in  the  rear  building  on  the 
top  floor.  Tom  was  sitting  in  a  chair  to  let  Mattie  put  a 
couple  of  oysters  on  his  eye  below  which  was  a  long  black 
bruise.  Jack  went  in  first.  Tom  did  not  see  the  police- 
man. 

"Yer'll  pay  fer  this,  now,  mind  yer,"  was  his  greet- 
ing. 

"Oh,  no,  Tom;  you  know  it's  best  for  you  to  treat 
him  on  the  square.  It  might  make  people  remember  if 
you  don't.  You  know  where  you'd  be  now  if  it  weren't 
for  his  mother ;  I  ain't  the  only  one  who  knows  it  either. 
It  wouldn't  be  healthy  for  you  in  the  ward,  maybe,  if 
the  boy  weren't  treated  square;  the  Children's  Society 
might  let  Pat  have  him ;  there's  them  as  thinks  it  might 
be  best  for  the  boy,  I  ain't  sayin'  I  don't  meself ." 

Tom  squirmed  and  Mattie  looked  troubled. 

"I've  known  worse  boys,  and  so  have  the  neighbors," 
he  added  significantly. 

There  was  a  movement  in  the  cradle,  and  a  baby  sat 
up.  The  moment  the  baby  saw  Jack  it  stretched  out  its 
arms,  cooing  gladly.  Jack  went  over  to  it  instinctively, 
and  took  it  up.  It  leaned  its  head  against  Jack's  cheek, 
gurgling  its  content. 

The  policeman  looked  from  the  two  at  the  cradle  to 
Tom  and  Mattie.  Both  blushed. 


28  THE   STORY   OF 

'Ter'll  be  square,  mind,  for  I  ain't  forgettin'."  The 
policeman  closed  the  door  and  went  down  the  stairs. 

The  crowd  who  awaited  the  policeman's  reappearance 
were  greatly  disappointed  as  he  came  out  whistling,  pass- 
ing through  the  passageway  they  made  without  com- 
ment; they  had  expected  more  entertainment.  They 
wandered  away  to  new  possibilities,  for  evening  was  com- 
ing down  and  probabilities  were  never  lacking  in  that 
neighborhood. 


CHAPTER   II. 

THE  NEW  HOME. 

THE  days  came  and  went,  each  day  leaving  Jack  a 
little  more  indifferent  to  people's  opinion  of  him.  Tom 
had  more  than  once  regretted  that  he  had  not  let  the 
Donohues  keep  the  boy.  He  found  the  added  expense 
of  the  boy's  food  a  serious  matter.  The  boy  kept  the 
chance  pennies  he  earned,  not  showing  any  of  the  in- 
dustry and  shrewdness  now  that  had  aroused  Tom's 
admiration  more  than  once  when  the  boy's  mother  was 
alive.  Tom  was  not  mollified  by  Jack's  loving  kindness 
to  the  baby,  proved  by  the  baby's  devotion  to  Jack.  This 
was  not  a  sufficient  return  for  a  home  in  Tom's  mind, 
and  over  and  over  again  he  wished  he  had  not  taken  the 
boy  in. 

Jack  would,  if  he  could,  escape  from  the  house  early 
in  the  morning,  drifting  about  the  docks  to  street  and 
back  again  without  any  more  care  or  purpose  than  the 
dogs  that  followed  him  in  a  companionship  born  ap- 
parently from  the  common  cause  of  lack  of  ownership. 

It  was  about  ten  o'clock  one  morning  some  months 
after  his  mother's  death,  that  Jack  was  strolling  aim- 
lessly along  with  the  baby  toward  the  dock,  when  Mrs. 
Donohue  beckoned  to  him  from  her  window.  She 
had  watched  for  him  and  done  this  whenever  he  was  alone 
ever  since  he  went  to  Mattie's  to  live.  It  had  meant  a 


30  THE   STORY   OF 

generous  slice  of  bread  and  butter  with  a  garnish  of 
sugar,  usually  brown  sugar,  or  a  cake,  or  a  penny.  It's 
true  that  to  enter  the  room  where  Mrs.  Donohue  was 
meant  a  severe  washing  of  his  face,  neck  and  hands,  and 
an  equally  severe  brushing  of  his  hair,  at  least  once  a  day. 
Jack  endured  the  penalty,  not  only  for  the  more  than 
compensatory  return,  but  because  it  was  such  a  pleasure 
to  Mrs.  Donohue.  Yesterday  he  had  seen  two  pieces  of 
stuff  on  her  rocker,  and  she  asked  him  if  he  thought  they 
would  make  pretty  shirts,  and  there  was  a  twinkle  in 
her  eyes  when  she  asked  him.  She  had  not  beckoned 
him  in  with  the  baby  before,  he  had  always  been  alone. 

Jack  responded  gaily  to  the  summons.  He  mounted 
the  stairs  with  the  baby  half  over  his  shoulder.  The  door 
was  open  and  he  walked  in  expectantly.  There  was  a 
difference  this  morning,  things  were  not  the  same. 

"Jack,  shure,  I  want  yer  to  do  an  errand  this  mornin'." 

Jack's  heart  sank  while  his  bony  shoulders  and  back 
straightened. 

"I  want  a  pint,  acushla,  and  here's  the  pail  and  the 
money.  I'll  take  care  of  the  young  one  till  yer  come 
back." 

The  boy  gave  the  baby  a  hitch  higher  and  looked  at 
Mrs.  Donohue.  "He  won't  be  good ;  he's  a  bit  'f raid  of 
people,"  he  objected. 

"Shure  it  won't  take  a  minute,  and  I  bet  he  cries 
longer  nor  that  with  Mattie."  Mrs.  Donohue  held  out 
the  pail  and  the  money  confidently,  but  Jack's  hand  did 
not  move  toward  it.  He  knew  what  he  was  facing.  No 
more  tenderness,  no  more  attention,  no  more  treats  dear 
to  his  boy  stomach  often  empty.  But  there  was  his 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY  31 

compact,  unspoken,  but  nevertheless  binding,  with  Mr. 
Donohue.  His  mother  had  often  told  him  that  Mrs. 
Donohue  was  her  own  enemy,  and  he  understood  what 
made  her  an  enemy  to  herself.  He  would  not  go  for  it ; 
some  day  she  would  be  glad.  The  boy  looked  at  her, 
his  eyes  beautiful  in  their  eloquence,  pleading,  entreat- 
ing, full  of  affection.  She  understood.  A  flush  of  shame 
and  anger  overspread  her  face,  blotting  out  the  mother- 
liness  that  had  lighted  it  whenever  she  and  Jack  met. 
She  turned  her  back  to  the  boy,  putting  down  the  pail 
and  the  money  on  the  table.  Neither  spoke  while  the 
little  boy  with  his  burden  turned  to  the  door,  knowing 
that  he  was  shut  out  from  all  the  care  and  hospitality 
of  that  home.  The  baby  was  troubled  and  peered  into 
the  face  that  for  him  was  always  smiling.  Out  into  the 
street  and  to  the  end  of  the  dock  the  boy  went. 

"I  won't/'  he  muttered;  "I  won't  go  after  it  for  her. 
It  just  makes  her  queer,  and  I  won't  do  it.  Me  mother 
told  me  to  skip  and  run  when  I  could  and  not  get  it 
for  her.  Pat  don't  want  me  ter,  and  I  won't!"  Then 
he  wondered  if  Pat  would  ever  know.  The  baby  fretted, 
and  the  boy  walked  up  and  down  the  pier  until  it  fell 
asleep,  then  he  sat  down  at  the  end  leaning  against  a 
barrel,  looking  out  over  the  river  whose  waves  carried 
his  confidences  to  the  ocean,  it  is  such  a  companionable 
river,  and  so  safe  to  keep  the  confidences  of  lonely  boys. 

The  one  door  that  had  opened  to  the  boy  he  had  closed. 
The  sense  of  loneliness  overcame  him,  and  the  tears  fell 
fast  on  the  baby's  face. 

"I  couldn't  do  it,  mother  never  wanted  me  to,  nor 
Pat.  Pat  most  told  me  not  to,  and  I  told  him  I  would- 


32  THE   STORY   OF 

n't,  but  she  won't  like  me  no  more/'  It  was  so  much 
worse  not  to  have  Mrs.  Donohue's  friendship.  The  sobs 
were  audible  to  a  man  on  the  stringpiece  behind  the 
row  of  barrels  watching  and  directing  the  loading  of  a 
lighter.  The  man  listened  and  then  investigated.  He 
saw  the  boy  and  stopped,  "The  poor  bye/'  he  said  to  him- 
self, "shure  I'll  tell  Maggie  and  she'll  fix  a  bit  of  dinner 
for  him.  I'll  see  Tom,  too.  Maggie'll  be  happier, 

and "  he  stopped  short  and  turned  away  to  direct 

the  truckman  driving  down  with  a  load  of  barrels,  where 
to  put  them. 

The  boy  cowered  a  little  lower  down  in  his  place  lest 
he  should  be  seen.  "I  ain't  no  kid."  He  brushed  his 
hand  across  his  eyes.  "I  wish  I  could  work  and  I'd  go 
away."  The  baby  nestled  closer  in  his  arms,  as  if  to 
remind  the  boy  how  much  he  needed  him. 

"Mattie  ain't  no  good  to  the  kid.  I'd  lick  her  and 
make  her  stay  home  if  I  was  Tom,  agoin'  off  and  doin' 
nothin'.  There  ain't  nothin'  in  the  house,  and  she'll  be 
gone  till  night."  He  looked  off  across  the  river  till  his 
own  head  dropped  on  the  baby's. 

As  the  twelve  o'clock  whistle  blew,  Mr.  Donohue  came 
round  the  pile  of  barrels  to  speak  to  the  boy.  He  looked 
at  them  both  a  moment  and  then  gently  touched  the 
boy  on  the  shoulder.  "Come  along  and  get  a  bite  of 
dinner,  the  whistles  are  blowing." 

Jack  woke  quickly  and  looked  at  Mr.  Donohue  so 
earnestly  that  the  man  was  startled. 

"No,  Mr.  Donohue,  not  to-day,  thank  you." 

"Shure,  why  not?"  demanded  the  man,  amazed  by 
this  refusal. 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY  33 

The  boy  was  silent  a  long  time,  as  if  studying  out  an 
answer.  "Not  to-day/'  was  his  response.  He  raised  his 
big  blue  eyes  to  Mr.  Donohue.  Whatever  they  told  him 
he  ceased  to  urge  Jack  to  go  with  him,  but  turned  sadly 
toward  the  home  into  which  a  new  life  had  come  since 
the  boy  had  turned  to  it,  giving  by  his  presence  and 
acceptance  to  the  lonely  man  and  woman  more,  far 
more  than  he  received. 

As  Mr.  Donohue  came  near  his  own  door  his  footsteps 
lagged.  Had  the  curse  of  their  lives  returned?  His 
hand  rested  on  the  knob  of  the  door  several  minutes  be- 
fore he  had  the  courage  to  turn  it.  He  entered,  Maggie 
had  the  dinner  ready  and  on  the  table,  but  her  face  was 
flushed  and  her  movements  flurried. 

She  was  not  the  Maggie  of  the  past  months,  nor  the 
Maggie  he  hated.  He  sat  down  to  the  table  and  began 
talking.  This  was  so  unlike  him  that  Maggie  was  sur- 
prised. 

"The  bye  is  down  on  the  dock  with  the  baby ;  I  found 
them  both  asleep;  I  woke  him  and  asked  him  to  come 
and  get  a  bite  of  dinner;  he  wouldn't  come.  Der  yer 
know  why,  Maggie?" 

Maggie  got  up  and  fussed  about  the  stove  but  did 
not  comment. 

"It's  strange,  der  yer  mind ;  for  he  looks  hungry  and 
so  does  the  baby."  Still  Maggie  did  not  respond. 

"I  started  a  wagon  fer  him  this  morn;  that  baby  is 
gettin'  heavy,  and  I  thought  if  he  had  a  wooden  wagon 
he  could  put  the  child  in  it." 

"Shure,  where's  the  carriage  they  had?"  asked  his 
wife. 


34  THE   STORY   OF 

"Sold,  I  do  be  thinkin' ;  I  saw  Mattie  wid  a  new  para- 
sol yesterday/' 

Maggie  frowned.  "Yes,  it's  like  her;  she  thought  she 
had  the  bye,  and  he'd  carry  the  young  one.  Shure  it's 
a  hard  road  he  do  be  havin'." 

<fYes,  thrue  f er  yer.  I  wonder  do  Tom  be  lickin'  him ; 
he's  white  lookin'." 

Maggie's  eyes  flashed,  but  she  did  not  speak. 

"Have  you  seen  him  to-day,  Maggie  dear?"  Her 
husband  was  busy  cutting  up  his  dinner  and  did  not  look 
at  her  as  he  asked  the  question. 

"Yes,"  she  answered. 

"Did  yer  give  him  anything?" 

"Oh,  Pat!"  Maggie  had  thrown  her  apron  over  her 
face.  In  a  minute  Pat  was  beside  her. 

"Yes,  Maggie,  darlint,  I  saw  it  in  his  eyes  when  he 
would  not  come  home  with  me.  I  know,  dear,  shure  you 
won't." 

"Pat,"  her  head  was  on  his  shoulder,  "the  divil  had 
me  all  the  mornin'.  I  don't  want  to,  Pat,  shure  I  never 
did ;  but  I  be  so  lonely.  I  got  the  things  to  make  Jack 
a  shirt,  I  thought  I'd  feel  better,  but  I  couldn't  get  him 
early,  and  settin'  here  wid  it  me  heart  ached  for  Jimmy ; 
'twas  like  I'd  get  fer  him,  and  when  I  saw  the  bye  from 
the  windy  I  beckoned  him.  He  came,  and  I  asked  him 
to  go  for  it" — Maggie  was  sobbing.  "He  wouldn't  go, 
and  it  made  me  mad.  Oh,  Pat !  I  don't  want  to.  Help 
me,  Pat!" 

His  head  was  down  on  hers  and  his  tears  were  falling 
fast.  "Maggie,  dear,  the  bye  will  never  go  fer  it  fer 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY  35 

yer;  I  see  it  in  him."  He  was  quiet  a  minute,  then  he 
continued  softly,  "Jimmy  never  would." 

Maggie  stood  up  straight  and  indignantly  protesting, 
"I  never  axed  him,  shure  if  I  had  him  I'd  never  want  it," 
and  again  her  head  went  down  on  Pat's  shoulder. 

"Maggie,  I'll  see  Tom  and  Mattie,  perhaps  they'd  give 
us  the  bye;  I  heard  he  was  sassy,  and  I  guess  he  was, 
and  that  Tom  threatened  to  lick  him.  I'll  thry  for  him, 
anyway."  His  big,  rough  hand  was  smoothing  her  hair, 
"Maggie,  ye'll  not  get  it  to-day,  will  yer?" 

"No,  Pat.  No."  After  a  silence,  "I'm  glad  I  told  yer. 
Pat,  ye're  good  to  me ;  I  have  made  yer  heart  ache  this 
many  a  day."  Maggie  was  sobbing. 

"It's  meself  that's  to  blame  for  not  knowin'  how  yer 
felt,  and  talkin'  to  yer." 

They  sat  down  at  the  table  and  tried  to  eat,  but  the 
fight  they  faced  made  this  a  pretence. 

As  Pat  was  leaving  the  house  he  went  over  to  Maggie, 
saying,  "Give  me  all  yer  money,  Maggie,  dear,  shure  'twill 
make  it  easier." 

Maggie  stood  up  like  an  obedient  child,  and  going  to 
the  closet  took  down  an  old  pitcher  and  gave  its  contents 
to  her  husband. 

"Pat,  I  don't  want  ter,  yer  know  that,  Pat,  don't 
yer?"  she  whispered. 

"Yes,  dear.  Now  I'll  send  the  bye  ter  yer,  if  I  can 
find  him,  and  ye  can  give  him  his  dinner."  Mr.  Dono- 
hue  went  down  the  stairs,  after  kissing  his  wife.  She 
stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  her  hands  clasped 
tightly,  a  soft  light  in  her  eyes,  her  cheeks  flushed  like  a 
girl's.  After  a  moment  Maggie  sank  in  the  big  rocker. 


36  THE   STORY   OF 

She  was  shaken  body  and  soul.  The  demon  of  drink  had 
taken  her  once  more  in  his  clutches,  and  the  woman  for 
the  first  time  fought  him,  her  soul  inspired  and  armored 
by  love.  In  her  bedroom  there  was  an  image  of  the 
Virgin;  with  a  firm  step  she  went  in  bearing  a  lighted 
candle,  there  she  knelt  and  continued  her  first  fight 
against  the  evil  that  she  had  hailed  as  good  through  all 
these  lonely  years. 

Down  on  the  end  of  a  pier  a  man  sat  looking  at  the 
river.  To  the  world  who  might  chance  to  see  him  he 
was  idling ;  but  there  was  a  husband  wrestling  as  Jacob 
wrestled,  but  not  for  himself.  He  was  wrestling  for  his 
wife,  the  mother  of  the  boy  whose  life  was  smothered 
out  by  the  rippling,  shining  river.  Here  the  husband 
prayed,  forgetting  everything  but  the  wife  at  home.  The 
men  who  worked  under  him  saw  that  the  "old  man" 
was  not  himself,  but  the  place  he  held  in  their  hearts 
silenced  comment,  though  each  man  believed  he  knew 
the  cause  of  the  "old  man's"  strangeness.  That  after- 
noon they  worked  faithfully  without  a  boss.  These  were 
loyal,  high-minded  men  in  the  blue  shirts  loading  and 
unloading  the  trucks.  Besides,  Maggie  had  been  a  friend 
to  every  man's  family.  To  all  of  them  it  was  the  tragedy 
of  long  ago  that  was  responsible  for  the  weakness  that 
had  come  to  her.  "She  hurts  no  one  but  herself,"  was 
his  and  their  loving  defence  of  the  woman  whose  sin 
it  was  to  seek  forgetfulness  by  creating  new  burdens, 
that  marked  her  even  among  her  own  people. 

Jack  and  the  baby  were  gone;  Mr.  Donohue  hunted 
everywhere,  but  they  could  not  be  found.  He  would 
have  felt  so  safe  if  the  boy  had  been  with  Maggie,  but 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY  37 

alone  ?  Would  she  go  to  some  of  the  women  and  get  it  ? 
Again  and  again  he  pulled  out  the  great  silver  watch, 
but  the  hours  dragged.  At  last  the  whistles  blew,  and  he 
hurried  away  as  the  men  had  never  seen  him;  this  con- 
firmed them  in  their  belief  as  to  why  the  "old  man"  was 
strange  that  afternoon.  They  went  home,  passing  the 
saloons  on  the  corners  without  entering. 

"I  wish  to  God  the  stuff  had  never  been  made/'  said 
one  young  fellow ;  "it's  ruining  us  all." 

The  men  knew  that  his  young  wife  was  beginning 
like  so  many,  and  yet  no  man  could  speak,  for  the 
shadow  was  in  every  home,  and  most  of  them  made  it. 
It  was  usually  the  wives  who  waited  anxiously  for  them. 
Few  like  the  "old  man/'  and  Cahill,  carried  the  burden 
instead  of  making  it. 

Mr.  Cahill  walked  quickly  after  the  young  man,  who 
was  walking  nervously  ahead  of  the  others;  he  caught 
up  with  him:  "Keep  the  money  away  from  her;  it's 
the  only  way."  He  turned  toward  his  own  home  before 
the  young  man  had  a  chance  to  respond,  for  he  saw  his 
daughter  Mary  sitting  quietly  in  the  doorway  waiting 
for  him.  He  knew  why. 

Mr.  Donohue  trembled  as  he  put  his  hand  on  the 
knob  of  his  own  door.  His  wife  heard  him  and  leaned 
forward,  white  and  tired. 

"Oh,  Pat !    I  thought  you'd  never  come." 

He  held  her  in  his  arms.  Before  the  statue  of  the 
Virgin  a  candle  was  burning,  and  the  man  understood. 
He  set  the  table,  fixed  the  fire,  and  made  a  strong  cup 
of  tea.  Her  eyes  followed  him,  full  of  love  and  grati- 
tude. 


38  THE   STORY   OF 

"Shure,  I  ain't  done  that  since  Jimmy  was  a  baby, 
have  I  ?"  he  asked.  She  shook  her  head. 

When  they  had  washed  and  wiped  the  dishes  their 
world  saw  that  most  unusual  sight,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dono- 
hue  going  out  together.  They  turned  the  corner.  Had 
the  neighbors  followed  them  they  would  have  seen  them 
enter  the  old  gray  stone  church  a  few  blocks  away,  and 
kneel  before  the  statue  that  expressed  the  tenderest  pity 
and  charity  for  all  who  had  a  besetting  sin.  When  they 
came  back  Maggie  was  quiet,  and  her  hand  rested  on  her 
husband's  arm. 

The  next  day  when  the  whistles  blew  the  noon  hour, 
after  the  men  had  gone,  a  boy  and  girl  of  the  same  age, 
came  down  the  dock  together.  They  were  not  talking, 
and  yet  it  was  evident  that  there  was  a  close  bond  be- 
tween them. 

Mr.  Donohue  watched  them.  He  wanted  to  see  Jack 
alone  and  ask  him  about  his  dinner,  but  he  would  not 
ask  in  the  presence  of  the  little  girl. 

"Shure,  I  believe  Mrs.  Cahill  is  off  again;  John  looks 
down  in  the  mouth,  he  has  for  days;  the  child  looks 
neglected,  too."  He  walked  home  confidently.  The  sun 
had  risen  on  his  life,  though  it  shone  from  the  west.  As 
he  went  up  the  stairs  Maggie  opened  the  door,  peering 
behind  him ;  she  showed  her  disappointment. 

"Have  you  seen  him?  I've  made  pancakes,"  she 
added,  not  giving  her  husband  time  to  answer. 

"He's  down  on  the  dock  now  with  Mary  Cahill. 
Shure  she  looks  hungry,  poor  child,"  commented  Mr. 
Donohue.  His  wife  blushed,  and  took  refuge,  as  she 
always  did,  in  fussing  about  the  stove. 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY  39 

"Shure,  if  ye'll  bring  the  two  of  them  in  I'll  make 
cakes  for  them ;  she's  a  nice  little  one." 

Mr.  Donohue  hurried  away,  moving  so  quickly  as  to 
alarm  the  neighbors  when  they  saw  him  turn  to  the 
river.  "Was  there  a  fire?"  questioned  more  than  one 
who  watched  him  going  back  at  once  to  the  docks. 

In  the  meantime  the  two  children — if  one  could  call 
children,  two  so  familiar  with  anxiety  and  care,  so 
familiar  with  facts  it  is  pitiable  that  childhood  should 
meet — were  seated  side  by  side  on  the  stringpiece,  their 
feet  hanging  over.  They  commented  on  boats,  but  at  last 
as  their  shoulders  touched,  each  little  heart  reached  out 
for  sympathy.  The  little  girl  spoke  first: 

"Did  Tom  lick  yer  last  night?" 

Anxiety,  sympathy,  indignation,  blended  in  a  voice  al- 
ways musical. 

Jack  nodded. 

"I'd  like  to  punch  his  head,"  and  she  doubled  her 
fists,  showing  every  bone  in  the  tensity  with  which  she 
closed  her  hand. 

Jack  flashed  a  look  she  readily  interpreted. 

"What  fer?"  was  her  next  query. 

"  'Cause  I  ran  away  and  wouldn't  take  care  of  the  kid 
for  them  to  go  to  a  picnic  last  night."  Both  were  silent. 
"I  had  him  all  the  day.  Mattie  hadn't  been  home ;  I  ran 
away  as  soon  as  she  came,  to  go  swimmin'  with  the 
fellers  and  to  play  ball  over  in  de  yard.  They  had  to 
stay  home  'cause  I  wasn't  there,"  he  added  with  malicious 
pleasure. 

"Where's  the  kid  now  ?     Have  yer  cut  agin  ?" 

"No.     He's   sick.     Mattie's   frightened.     She   and 


40  THE   STORY   OF 

Tom's  goin'  to  take  him  to  the  mission  to-night  to  de 
doctor/' 

"I'm  sorry  de  kid  is  sick;  he's  awful  smart." 

The  little  girl  had  touched  the  chord  to  which  the 
boy  responded  most  quickly.  With  fine  reserve  she  got 
up  and  walked  away,  watching  something  in  the  water 
at  the  other  side  of  the  pier.  When  she  came  back 
Jack  was  whistling,  a  dreary  whistle  which  aroused  the 
little  girl's  sympathy  far  more  than  tears. 

They  sat  silent  some  time,  when  the  boy,  struck  by 
the  girl's  silence,  looked  sharply  at  her,  and  then  said  in 
a  voice  that  Tom  and  Mattie  would  not  have  recognized : 

"Is  yer  alone  ?" 

The  girl  nodded. 

"How  long?" 

Now  Jack  sat  near  to  the  girl,  his  big  blue  eyes  black 
with  indignation. 

"Since  yesterday.  Me  father  said  ten  days.  Charlie 
took  her  in  and  told  me  father." 

Again  silence. 

"Is  yer  father  workin'  ?" 

"Mr.  Donohue  gave  him  a  job  on  de  oder  dock  three 
days  ago.  He  wouldn't  pay  this  time,  he  said  it  was 
better  not  to,  and  p'r'aps  she  would  git  frightened. 
Charlie  said  she  was  awful  and  he  had  ter.  We  ain't 
seen  her  since  the  Smith  wake." 

Now  the  girl  was  crying,  little  heart-broken  sobs. 
Jack  fidgetted  and  looked  as  he  felt,  helpless  and  dis- 
tressed. After  a  time  the  girl  spoke  between  her  sohs : 

"I  was  agofin'  ter  school  this  mornin'  when  Mollie  Mul- 
ligan and  her  gang  called  after  me,  'Yer  mother's  sent 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY  41 

up !  Yer  mother's  sent  up !'  Yer  see,  me  father,  Satur- 
day night,  buyed  me  this  pink  dress,  and  I  didn't  put  it 
on  yesterday,  waitin'  to  show  it  to  her.  Me  father  didn't 
go  out  and  I  didn't.  I  guess  it  made  them  mad  to  see  me 
have  it,  and  that's  why  they  said  it.  I  came  down  here 
'cause  I  didn't  want  me  father  ter  know  I  didn't  go  ter 
school.  I  didn't  want  ter  tell  him  'bout  Mollie  Mulli- 
gan." 

Jack's  face  was  crimson.  "I  wish  she  was  a  boy,  I'd 
punch  her  jaw.  I'll  do  it  anyway  if  she  says  it  again." 

"Shure  her  mother'd  scald  yer.  Don't,  Jack,  don't 
touch  her."  Mary  was  pleading  and  her  eyes  were  filling 
with  tears.  Jack  promised. 

"I'll  go  home  before  school's  out ;  then  me  father  won't 
know.  I'll  get  home  before  they  can  see  me." 

The  children  were  quiet  when  Mr.  Donohue  stopped  at 
the  row  of  barrels  at  the  end  of  the  pier.  He  listened 
and  then  said: 

"Come  along  you  two."  Both  jumped.  It  was  an 
order  to  leave  the  dock,  and  they  were  startled,  for  this 
had  been  their  special  privilege;  the  mark  of  good  be- 
havior at  least  on  the  property  under  Mr.  Donohue's 
control. 

"Come  along  the  two  of  yer."  They  were  both  fright- 
ened and  astonished,  for  Mr.  Donohue  was  an  awe-in- 
spiring man.  Speechless,  the  children  walked  just  ahead 
of  him  until  they  reached  the  street,  then  they  stopped 
for  neither  knew  where  to  go. 

"Come  along  home  with  me  the  pair  of  yer."  They 
looked  at  Mr.  Donohue's  face  and  saw  his  eyes  were 


42  THE   STORY   OF 

dancing  with  fun.  "Come  along,  and  no  lagging,  or  yer 
dinner  will  be  spiled." 

The  children  looked  at  each  other  and  a  joyous  ex- 
change of  glances  ended  in  a  rippling  laugh.  Jack  said : 
"We  thought  yer  mad,  drivin'  us  off  the  dock,  didn't  we, 
Mary?" 

They  hurried  after  Mr.  Donohue,  who  kept  well  in 
front  of  them  to  avoid  comments  by  the  neighbors. 
They  had  almost  reached  the  hall  door  when  Mr.  Dono- 
hue heard : 

"Yer  mother's  sent  up !  Yer  mother's  sent  up !  Yer 
needn't  put  on  airs  in  yer  old  pink  dress."  A  stone 
followed.  Mr.  Donohue  turned.  Mary,  her  eyes  full  of 
tears  of  shame  and  anger,  stood  beside  Jack,  who  would 
have  sprung  after  the  girl  if  Mary  had  not  held  him. 
Mr.  Donohue  swung  round,  took  Mary  by  the  hand,  and 
faced  the  three  girls  on  the  other  side  of  the  street.  At 
once  they  ran,  for  Mr.  Donohue  was  a  power.  At  his 
bidding  men  were  hired  and  discharged,  and  his  favor 
must  be  cultivated;  his  friendship  was  a  mantle  of 
protection. 

Mollie  Mulligan  and  her  followers  had  not  noticed 
Mr.  Donohue  when  they  sent  their  cry  of  scorn.  Mr. 
Donohue  kept  Mary's  hand  until  they  had  entered  his 
own  hallway,  when  he  hurried  ahead  of  the  children  up 
the  stairs. 

"Here  they  are,  Maggie ;  and  it's  busy  they'll  keep  yer, 
I  bet." 

The  girl  was  shy  and  ill  at  ease,  for  she  had  never  been 
in  the  house  before,  though  she  had  known  both  Mr. 
Donohue  and  his  wife  all  her  life.  The  carpeted  floor, 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY  43 

the  bright  oilcloth  under  the  stove  and  crossing  in  front 
of  the  closet;  the  stove  itself  a  black,  shining  beauty; 
the  table  with  its  white  cloth,  and  the  dishes  in  orderly 
array;  the  bedroom  neat  and  tidy,  and  beyond,  a  little 
room  into  which  a  broad  belt  of  sunshine  shone  on  the 
picture  of  the  Mother  of  Sorrows  hanging  on  the  wall. 
Mary's  eyes  rested  on  the  statue  of  the  Virgin  before 
which  two  wax  candles  burned.  This  elegance  of  ap- 
pointments as  contrasted  with  her  own  home,  and  the 
homes  with  which  she  Avas  most  familiar,  overpowered 
the  child  and  quite  changed  the  talkative  small  person 
with  whom  Jack  was  most  familiar  into  a  stranger.  She 
hung  back  in  spite  of  Mrs.  Donohue's  most  urgent  invi- 
tation to  have  dinner.  Jack  was  puzzled,  till  by  that 
subtle  telegraphy  born  of  sympathy  and  affection,  he 
brusquely  said: 

"She  wants  to  wash  her  hands  and  face." 
Nothing  could  arouse  Mrs.  Donohue's  enthusiasm 
more;  she  produced  water,  soap,  and  towels,  adding  to 
Mary's  bewilderment  by  this  further  evidence  of  wealth 
and  prodigality.  When  she  emerged  from  Mrs.  Dono- 
hue's attentions  she  was  glowing,  her  auburn  hair  curl- 
ing over  her  forehead.  The  personal  attentions  of  Mrs. 
Donohue  and  her  evident  enjoyment  in  giving  them  had 
removed  the  child's  timidity  and  awe,  and  a  smiling,  re- 
sponsive child  sat  down  opposite  Jack  at  the  table.  She 
was  more  at  home.  The  dinner  was  a  feast,  not  only  to 
the  children,  but  to  the  host  and  hostess,  who  parted  with 
radiant  faces;  the  little  girl's  beaming  in  happiness  at 
the  prospect  of  spending  the  balance  of  the  day  in  this 
home  of  opulence,  secure  in  Mrs.  Donohue's  protection. 


44  THE   STORY   OF 

The  quick  eye  of  Mrs.  Donohue  discovered  the  flimsy 
making  of  the  dress  that  Mary  wore ;  she  soon  had  it  off, 
and  as  soon  Mary  was  in  bed  and  her  underclothes  in  a 
tub. 

"My  lands,  child !  ye're  not  fit  for  a  clean  dress." 

The  bony  little  body  stretched  out  on  the  clean,  tidy 
bed  gratefully ;  she  had  never  known  that  luxury  before. 
Mary  looked  like  a  newly-born  baby  in  her  pink  and 
white  loveliness  and  the  rings  of  auburn  curls  as  she  lay 
on  the  pillows  that  had  not  received  the  impress  of  a 
head  these  many  years  but  Jack's. 

How  the  busy  motherly  fingers  and  brain  flew;  the 
hours  of  the  afternoon  were  not  long  enough  for  all  Mrs. 
Donohue  had  to  do.  When  Mr.  Donohue  came  home,  he 
exclaimed  at  the  change  the  day  had  wrought  in  Mary. 
Jack  openly  showed  his  admiration.  In  all  her  life  the 
child  had  never  been  so  comfortable.  A  long  sleep  in  the 
day  time,  a  bath,  clean,  mended  clothes,  all  the  buttons 
on  her  shoes,  and  every  garment  buttoned  in  place.  There 
was  a  soft  light  in  her  eyes,  and  a  quiet  gentleness  in 
her  voice  and  manner  that  seemed  to  keep  her  apart  from 
Jack.  The  supper  of  bread  and  butter  with  brown  sugar 
for  the  children,  and  tea,  was  a  feast,  not  only  in  its 
quality  and  abundance,  but  the  magnificence  of  its  ar- 
rangement. Mr.  Donohue  beamed  with  more  eloquence 
than  language  would  have  expressed,  while  Mrs.  Donohue 
in  her  care  of  the  children  did  not  have  time  to  eat.  In 
the  midst  of  the  supper  there  was  a  rap  on  the  door  in- 
dicating anger,  that  made  Jack  jump.  He  knew  it  was 
Tom.  The  door  opened  before  the  "come  in"  was  ended. 
It  was  Tom. 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY  45 

"You  scoundrel,  I'll  skin  you  when  I  get  yer  home, 
sneakin'  off  and  tellin'  the  neighbors  yer  were  hungry." 

"Stop,  Tom  I"  Mr.  Donohue  was  on  his  feet.  "The 
boy  hasn't  said  a  word.  I  brought  him  home.  He's  been 
with  me  all  the  day." 

"Yer  did,  did  yer  ?  Well,  yer  better  not.  If  he  knows 
what's  good  fer  him  he'll  stay  where  he  belongs;  I'll 
break  every  bone  in  his  body.  He " 

Tom  had  been  drinking.  This  was  so  unusual  that  it 
troubled  Jack  far  more  than  his  threats  which  Jack 
heard  every  day,  and  which  never  had  gone  beyond  a 
blow  on  the  head  that  staggered  him  for  a  minute,  or  a 
not  heavy  kick  which  angered  more  than  it  hurt  him. 
There  was  a  sharp  glance  into  Tom's  face,  and  then  the 
boy  stepped  forward. 

"How's  the  kid?    What  did  the  doctor  say?" 

Tom  stopped  and  gasped,  his  face  grew  white,  and  he 
sank  in  a  chair  crying. 

With  a  sharp  drawing  of  his  breath  Jack  went  out 
the  door  and  down  the  stairs  conscience  stricken, 
wretched ;  the  kid  dead !  Perhaps  Mattie  got  mad  and 
left  it  alone,  and  it  died.  The  boy  ran  when  he  reached 
the  street. 

Mrs.  Donohue  went  over  to  Tom,  laying  her  hand  on 
his  head  as  if  he  were  Jack. 

"Is  he  gone,  Tom,  me  bye  ?" 

Tom  shook  his  head. 

"Then  stop  cryin',  me  man;  I'll  go  round  wid  yer; 
while  there's  life  there's  hope." 

Mrs.  Donohue  hurried  into  the  bedroom  and  out  again. 

"Tell  me,  Tom." 


46  THE   STORY   OF 

"He  was  sick  this  mornin',  but  we  didn't  notice  the  kid 
was  so  bad;  after  a  little  he  went  to  sleep,  and  I  went 
to  work,  there  was  a  little  doin'.  Mattie  said  the  baby 
woke  up  better.  I  was  too  far  away  to  come  home  to 
dinner — there  wasn't  much  to  come  for  anyway.  When 
the  kid  went  to  sleep  again,  she  went  out  to  look  for 
Jack,  she  wanted  to  go  to  the  Cassidys  to  see  Julia ;  she 
stayed  away  longer'n  she  thought,  and  when  she  came 
back  the  child  was  stiff  in  the  cradle ;  she  screamed,  and 
some  of  the  women  ran  for  the  doctor.  He  says  it's  his 
stomach,  and  that  he's  been  eatin'.  Mattie  says  she  only 
gave  him  a  cruller  and  some  coffee  when  he  woke  up; 
but  if  that  boy  had  been  with  him  he  wouldn't  have  been 
sick.  He  was  alone,  the  little  duffer."  Tom's  tears  were 
falling  fast. 

"Tom,  the  bye  is  not  to  blame ;  we'll  go  now,"  and  the 
woman,  all  the  mother  in  her  responding  to  this  call, 
looked  into  her  husband's  face  for  sympathy  as  she  closed 
the  door. 

The  pink  dress  radiated  the  room ;  it  flashed  from  one 
side  to  the  other  of  the  table,  over  to  the  sink,  back  to 
the  table.  Never  in  all  her  life  was  Mary  so  happy.  In 
the  midst  of  her  busy  efforts,  watched  through  a  cloud  of 
smoke  by  the  man  at  the  window,  there  was  a  friendly 
knock,  responded  to  by  a  glad  cry,  and  the  pink  dress 
flashed  to  the  door,  the  little  figure  inside  of  it  chal- 
lenging attention. 

The  father  looked  proudly  at  her,  and  no  one  could 
wonder.  She  was  a  charming  sight  for  any  man,  that 
slender  little  figure  balanced  like  a  butterfly  just 
alighting. 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY  47 

"I'm  washing  the  dishes  for  Mrs.  Donohue.  Tom's 
baby  is  sick."  Then  a  rush  of  flame  rose  to  the  curling 
locks  on  her  forehead.  "I  forgot  your  supper."  Her  lip 
trembled,  and  all  the  happiness  died  out  of  the  child's 
face. 

"Shure,  Mary,  I  was  glad  to  have  yer  here.  I  knew 
you  were  her;  Pat  told  me.  I  got  me  supper  before  I 
went  home.  How  fine  yer  look!  Now,  can  yer  wash 
the  dishes  ?  I'll  bet  yer  can't." 

The  challenge  was  accepted,  and  again  the  pink  dress 
went  flashing  about  the  room,  the  face  above  it  glowing 
with  contentment.  The  broom  was  used  to  brush  up  the 
crumbs,  and  then  the  table,  covered  with  a  red  cloth, 
pushed  back  against  the  wall.  Every  victory  attempted 
won,  this  modern  conqueress  stood  looking  for  other 
victories,  but  her  little  world  was  conquered.  She  sat  on 
the  arm  of  her  father's  chair  looking  into  the  busy  street. 
The  children  were  playing  everywhere.  A  large-sized 
girl  stood  looking  at  Mary  from  the  top  of  a  pile  of  lum- 
ber where  she  had  been  playing  "I  spy"  with  several 
other  girls.  Her  dress  hung  loosely  from  her  shoulders ; 
only  the  top  button  was  in  place  on  her  shoes,  which 
were  of  different  sizes ;  her  hair  was  matted  and  unkempt. 
She  gazed  long  and  steadily  at  the  girl  looking  out  of  the 
window  before  she  attracted  her  attention ;  she  beckoned 
to  the  girl  to  join  the  game,  but  the  girl  in  the  window 
shook  her  head,  she  was  far  removed  from  that  world  of 
which  she  had  been  so  active  a  figure  but  yesterday. 
Again  the  girl  on  the  lumber  pile  beckoned,  but  the  invi- 
tation was  declined  again  by  an  emphatic  shake  of  the 
head.  This  time  Mary  seemed  to  take  in  all  the  unclean- 


48  THE   STORY   OF 

liness  and  untidiness  of  the  girl  standing  flushed  with 
anger  on  the  projecting  board  of  the  lumber  pile.  The 
girl  turned  and  ran  lightly  along  the  top  of  the  pile,  call- 
ing to  the  girls  in  the  game  to  meet  her.  In  a  short 
time  a  half  dozen  girls  of  Mary's  age  and  older  were 
appearing  on  the  pile  visible  and  nearest  the  window 
from  which  Mary  leaned  unconsciously.  Her  face 
framed  by  the  curling  auburn  hair,  the  little  frill  of 
white  about  her  neck,  the  shapely  white  chubby  hands 
held  daintily  from  the  window  sill,  and  the  childish  look 
of  content  were  in  sharp  contrast  with  the  general  air 
of  neglect  of  the  assembled  children  gazing  intently  at 
her.  Suddenly  a  second  idea  seemed  to  enter  the  mind 
of  the  leader,  and  the  group  dispersed,  a  head  being 
visible  here  and  there  behind  various  corners  of  the  lum- 
ber piles. 

The  two  men  were  interested  in  their  conversation,  but 
not  oblivious  of  the  little  figure  which  was  poised  rather 
than  leaning  out  of  the  window.  The  father  of  the 
child  was  puzzled  by  the  new  beauty  which  he  recog- 
nized in  his  child,  but  was  unable  to  explain.  The  men 
started  as  a  chorus  voiced  itself  in  "Mary  Cahill's  moth- 
er's sent  up  !"  over  and  over  in  quick  repetition.  The  child 
drew  back  as  if  struck,  and  buried  her  head  on  her  father's 
breast.  The  cries  continued,  then  stopped,  to  be  repeated 
with  the  addition,  "She  needn't  put  on  airs  with  her 
old  pink  dress."  Mr.  Donohue  tried  to  ignore  the  sounds, 
while  Mr.  Cahill,  with  every  effort,  tried  to  soothe  Mary 
who  was  hurt,  not  resentful,  bewildering  him  by  this 
new  phase;  anger,  retaliation  he  knew,  but  not  this 
suffering. 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY  49 

The  verbal  assault  not  having  the  expected  result,  not 
even  remonstrance,  ceased,  but  it  rang  in  the  ears  of  the 
little  girl  who  for  half  a  day  had  lived  in  Fairyland, 
where  there  was  love,  care,  and  a  beauty  of  which  she 
had  not  dreamed,  a  beauty  of  order  and  cleanliness  only, 
but  to  her  a  revelation. 

The  father  looked  helplessly  at  his  friend  whose  bur- 
den was  the  same,  but  with  this  difference,  that  pride 
was  not  lost,  and  only  the  surmise  was  the  public  cer- 
tainty, and  most  of  all,  there  was  no  child  to  suffer  with 
him.  The  other  man  looked  his  sympathy,  but  he  knew 
his  own  failure,  he  was  too  uncertain  of  the  entrance  of 
the  victory  which  he  felt  was  only  on  the  threshold  of 
his  home,  to  more  than  look  his  comprehension  of  the 
other's  trouble.  Involuntarily  his  eyes  rested  on  the 
candles  burning  in  the  bedroom  before  the  statue  of  the 
Virgin,  and  the  eyes  of  the  father  followed  him.  When 
Mr.  Donohue  looked  at  the  child  in  the  lap  of  her  father 
lie  knew  that  there  were  burdens  more  grievous  than 
his  own. 

Mary  lay  still,  her  cheeks  flushed,  her  bright  eyes 
watching  the  coming  of  the  night  over  the  river,  re- 
vealing her  consciousness  of  what  was  thrust  upon 
her.  Through  her  mind  ran  many  scenes  and  many  ques- 
tions. Janey  Dowd's  mother  took  just  as  much,  but  she 
was  never  run  in,  she  went  to  sleep ;  most  of  the  women 
did  take  it,  but  no  one  acted  like  her  mother,  breaking 
things  and  fighting;  she  wanted  to  ask  what  made  the 
difference,  but  she  never  could  talk  about  it  with  her 
father  or  any  one  but  Jack.  Mollie  Mulligan  did  not  care. 
She  remembered  only  last  week  when  she  stayed  out  of 


50  THE   STORY   OF 

the  house  all  day  because  her  mother  and  Mrs.  Mulligan 
acted  so,  that  at  night  when  Mr.  Mulligan  asked  Mollie, 
"Where's  yer  mother  ?"  right  before  all  the  girls,  Mollie 
answered,  without  stopping  the  game  of  jackstones, 
"Drunk  at  the  Cahills,  ain't  she,  Mary?" 

She  sat  up  now  when  she  thought  of  the  shame  and 
indignation  that  moved  her  and  made  her  leave  the  girls ; 
she  knew  it  was  true,  but  it  must  not  be  spoken.  She  did 
not  lean  out  of  the  window  again  until  she  thought  it  was 
too  dark  for  the  girls  to  see  her.  Apparently  she  had 
offended,  for  she  heard  Mollie  Mulligan  say  as  she  passed 
under  the  window : 

"There  she  is  \"  followed  by  "Yer  mother  ain't  lookin' 
out  the  winder." 

" them !"  said  her  father,  as  she  drew  back  again. 

"What'll  I  do,  Pat?  Shure  they  torment  the  child,  and 
she's  alone  all  day,  and  goin'  and  comin'  from  school." 

"I  didn't  go  to-day;  I  stayed  with  Jack  on  the  dock 
till  Mr.  Donohue  brought  me  home.  Ain't  it  lovely 
here  ?"  was  the  child's  effort  to  lighten  the  burden. 

"I  don't  know  what  to  do  shure,"  was  the  hopeless 
comment  addressed  to  his  friend  who  was  silent. 

There  was  a  quick  step  on  the  stairs  and  Mrs.  Dono- 
hue came  in  followed  by  Jack,  crying.  That  the  baby 
was  dead  they  knew  without  asking. 

"It's  well  for  it,"  was  Mrs.  Donohue's  comment. 
"Tom  is  too  far  gone  to  know  what's  happened,  and 
Mattie  is  that  mad  at  him  that  it's  but  little  she  cares 
for  the  young  one.  It's  a  tough  life  the  child  would  be 
havin';  shure  it's  the  mercy  of  the  Mother  of  God  that 
he's  taken.  Mattie  went  off  to  the  Cassidys  and  the  child 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY  51 

had  a  convulsion  alone;  she  found  it  stiff  when  she  got 
back.  Tom  looks  ugly,  so  I  brought  the  boy  home  with 
me.  There,  now,  sonny,  shure  yer  ought  to  be  glad. 
What  could  yer  do  f er  it  ?"  His  sorrow  demanded  some 
comfort. 

"I  might've  knowed  Mattie'd  leave  it.  He  was  sick 
early  this  mornin',  and  I  ought  ter  stayed.  He  held 
me  finger  when  I  wanted  to  go,  and  I  sneaked  when  he 
went  ter  sleep;  there  wan't  anybody  wid  him,"  sobbed 
Jack  on  Mrs.  Donohue's  shoulder,  while  Mr.  Donohue 
hovered  over  both. 

The  little  girl  leaned  against  her  father,  her  eyes  swim- 
ming with  tears,  but  silent. 

"Shure,  he's  lucky  to  have  such  friends,"  was  the 
inward  comment  of  the  visitor,  who,  taking  his  little  girl 
by  the  hand,  said  "Good  night,  and  thank  yer." 

The  door  closed,  but  Mrs.  Donohue  running  out  into 
the  dark  hall  called  after  them,  "Come  to  see  me  in  the 
morning,  Mary;  send  her  here  when  yer  go  to  work, 
John." 

Jack's  grief  did  not  save  him  from  a  scrubbing.  Again 
he  found  himself  clean  and  tired  between  the  clean 
sheets,  but  this  time  a  woman's  kiss  was  his  last  remem- 
brance as  the  burning  lids  dropped  over  his  eyes. 

Again  he  lived  through  the  horror  of  a  wake  and 
funeral.  This  time  it  was  worse,  for  Tom  was  drunk 
all  the  time,  and  ugly  to  every  one  but  Mattie.  Mattie 
wanted  Jack  to  stay  with  her,  but  if  Tom  saw  him  he 
swore  and  cursed  him  as  sneak  and  bum,  too  lazy  to  earn 
his  victuals.  The  boy  stayed  for  Mattie's  sake,  but  one 
thought  never  changed,  he  would  leave  when  the  funeral 


52  THE   STORY   OF 

was  over.  He  did  not  know  where  he  would  go,  but  he 
would  go  away,  of  that  he  was  certain. 

At  last  all  was  over,  and  they  came  back  to  the  rooms 
so  bare  and  orderly,  the  neighbors'  last  expression  of 
sympathy  at  such  a  time.  Tom  was  sober.  The  sight  of 
the  clean,  orderly  cradle  brought  a  great  sob,  and  Mattie 
heard  the  first  sound  of  reproach. 

"Oh,  Mattie !  why  did  you  leave  the  kid  alone ;  he  was 
so  little?" 

"Tom,  I  didn't  mean  to  be  gone  long,  I  didn't." 

The  man  reproachfully  gathered  the  little  figure  so 
frail,  and  so  young  in  his  arms. 

Jack  stole  out  in  the  twilight  to  the  dock.  No  one 
missed  him,  no  one  asked  for  him.  He  sat  there  tired, 
hungry,  and  oh,  so  lonely !  Tom  would  be  ugly.  What 
could  he  do,  where  could  he  go?  He  fought  against 
tears,  but  he  was  only  eleven.  He  wanted  his  mother. 
The  night  fell,  the  street  lights  blazed  out,  throwing 
long  beams  of  light  on  the  pier,  but  Jack  sat,  a  miserable 
bundle,  with  his  back  against  the  barrels. 

A  man  and  a  woman  came  peering  at  every  place  where 
one  might  be  hidden,  at  last  they  reached  the  end  of  the 
pier,  when  the  man  said,  "Shure,  it's  just  as  I  told  you, 
there  he  is."  The  woman  went  forward,  and  taking  the 
boy  in  her  arms,  "Why,  Jack,  dear,  I  waited  and  waited 
for  yer." 

Jack  did  that  for  which  he  never  lost  his  amazement, 
he  put  his  arms  around  Mrs.  Donohue's  neck  and  kissed 
her.  Until  the  street  was  reached  he  walked  between  the 
two,  each  holding  a  hand,  but  as  he  came  back  to  the 
world,  whose  standard  he  knew,  he  dropped  their  hands, 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY  53 

pulling  his  hat  down  over  his  eyes,  he  sauntered  behind 
them.  There  was  a  feast  waiting  for  him,  and  then  came 
the  same  question  to  the  three,  "What  was  Jack  to  do  ?" 

"Yer  knowwe'dbeglad  to  keep  yer,  but  we  can't  widout 
Tom  and  Mattie  is  willin'."  It  was  Mr.  Donohue  who 
spoke.  "Yer  could  go  to  school  and  learn  things  yer 
ought  ter  know.  Don't  I  see  young  fellers  walkin'  right 
past  me  because  they  had  larnin'  ?" 

"If  Jimmy  was  wid  us  he'd  go  ter  school  every  day; 
he'd  be  goin'  wid  yer,"  interposed  Mrs.  Donohue. 

Mr.  Donohue  looked  surprised.  Why,  it  would  be  Jim- 
my's boy — most — who  would  be  going,  he  remembered. 
But  another  revelation  had  come  to  him.  Jimmy  had 
never  grown  up  to  his  mother.  The  mystery  of  her  de- 
votion to  Jack  was  revealed.  Why  couldn't  he  keep 
Jack  ?  No  one  needed  him  so  much  as  Maggie. 

"I'd  work  if  I  could;  I  always  earnt  somethin'  when 
me  mudder  was  here." 

"I  wouldn't  want  yer  ter  earn  till  yer  had  lamed  yer 
books,"  was  the  emphatic  response  of  Mr.  Donohue.  "A 
man  is  a  poor  stick  now-a-days  widout  it.  But  Jack, 
me  bye,  we  must  get  Tom  to  say  yes." 

"He  don't  care,  Mr.  Donohue.  He  don't  care  now  the 
kid  is  gone."  Jack's  voice  broke. 

There  was  a  knock,  and  Tom  came  in.  He  was  sober 
and  angry. 

"I  want  yer  to  let  that  boy  alone.  I  told  his  mother 
I'd  watch  him,  and  I  will.  Yer  mean  well,  but  I  don't 
want  none  of  yer  interference.  Yer  come  home,"  he 
said,  addressing  Jack,  "and  if  yer  come  here  spongin' 
agin,  I'll  make  yer  sorry." 


54  THE   STORY   OF 

"Tom,  will  yer  send  him  to  school?" 

A  sly  look  came  into  Tom's  eyes.  "If  I  can  get 
nothin'  better  for  him  to  do."  Jack  followed  Tom  to 
the  street. 

Mrs.  Donohue  sat  by  the  window;  now  and  then  she 
wiped  her  eyes.  Her  husband  watched  her,  a  nameless 
dread  numbing  him.  With  the  boy  to  care  for  he  knew 
that  Maggie  would  win,  but  the  days  of  loneliness,  the 
want  of  something  to  care  for  had  been  her  undoing,  and 
he  was  so  helpless. 

"Pat,  shure,  I  think  I  can  do  a  lot  for  him,  and  there's 
Mary  Cahill.  God  knows  the  child  needs  somebody ;  she 
stayed  here  until  school  time  and  I  gave  her  a  lunch,  but 
I  saw  her  on  the  lumber  beyant  wid  der  Mulligan  girl. 
I  was  watchin'  for  Jack  and  didn't  go  after  her,  but  I 
will." 

Pat's  hopes  rose,  his  faith  increased,  and  the  new 
candles  before  the  statue  bore  testimony  to  his  gratitude 
as  well  as  his  faith. 

The  next  night  she  sat  dull  and  quiet,  and  Pat  knew 
the  demon  had  reentered  his  home,  but  his  heart  was 
full  of  sympathy.  Maggie  welcomed  it,  and  the  battle 
was  won  again. 

One  night,  three  weeks  after,  he  carried  home  the  boy 
ragged,  thin,  half  unconscious,  bruised.  Tom  had  kicked 
him  out,  thrown  him  down  the  stairs.  Some  men  told 
Mr.  Donohue,  and  he  went  after  the  boy  lying  in  the 
hall. 

Jack  would  not  go  out  with  the  can  for  Tom,  and  the 
group  of  men  in  the  little  woodhouse  in  the  yard;  they 
had  been  there  all  day.  Mattie  had  not  been  home ;  she 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY  55 

had  left  in  the  night.  Jack  had  eaten  nothing  since 
morning,  and  little  the  day  before  or  the  day  before 
that.  For  weeks  there  had  been  evidences  of  no  money ; 
the  clock  had  disappeared  last  week — his  and  his 
mother's  clock.  He  knew  it  was  sold  or  pawned.  Day 
before  yesterday  his  mother's  sewing  machine  had  gone ; 
sold  to  Julia  Cassidy,  Mamie  told  him.  There  was 
something  wrong.  Tom  was  keeping  out  of  the  way. 
He  dare  not  go  to  the  Donohues,  for  Tom  said  he 
would  send  him  up  if  he  went  there.  Besides  he  had 
seen  Pat  walk  along  for  days  with  his  head  down.  Mary 
Cahill  told  him  she  had  been  running  the  can  for  Mrs. 
Donohue,  and  she  was  queer  and  didn't  talk.  Jack  didn't 
want  to  see  Mr.  Donohue  now,  but  Mary  had  promised 
him  not  to  go  again  with  the  pail.  It  was  dark  out  of 
doors.  A  low  whistle  called  Jack  to  the  window;  the 
door  of  the  woodhouse,  where  Tom  was,  opened  enough 
to  let  a  hand  beckon  him.  The  boy  did  not  respond. 
Again  the  low  whistle  and  the  hand  beckoning  him,  but 
Jack  did  not  move.  Darkness  fell,  and  he  was  still  alone. 
He  knew  the  end  had  come,  he  was  waiting  for  Tom;  a 
stealthy  footstep  came  through  the  hall  toward  the  door, 
it  opened.  Tom  came  in  white  with  rage,  "Did  yer  hear 
me?"  Jack  looked  at  him  defiantly.  He  was  grasping 
for  freedom.  He  felt  himself  grabbed  by  the  neck  in 
the  darkness;  he  felt  the  kicks,  he  knew  he  was  raised 
at  the  head  of  the  stairs  by  his  clothes  and  felt  himself 
falling  through  the  air. 

The  next  he  knew  he  was  in  a  clean  bed  at  Mrs.  Dono- 
hue's,  his  head  all  tied  up,  and,  to  his  surprise,  so  glad  to 
lie  still,  though  the  sun  was  shining  brightly.  He  could 


56  THE   STORY   OF 

hear  Mrs.  Donohue  moving  about  in  the  other  room. 
There  was  a  sound,  he  turned  his  head  and  saw  Mary 
Cahill  standing  in  the  door;  she  was  looking  anxiously 
at  him,  but  her  face  brightened  as  he  smiled  at  her. 

"Mrs.  Donohue,  come,"  she  whispered  loudly. 

"There,  shure  yer  all  right,  as  the  doctor  said  you 
would  be."  She  pulled  at  the  bedclothes  and  patted  the 
bandages  on  his  head. 

"Tom,  bad  cess  to  him,  kicked  yer  down  the  stairs," 
Mrs.  Donohue  replied  to  the  question  in  Jack's  eyes. 
Then  Jack  remembered. 

"Shure,  he'll  not  bother  yer  again,  dear.  He's  gone, 
bag  and  baggage,  and  no  one  knows  where,  and  small 
loss  he  is.  I  wish  he'd  taken  his  gang  wid  him.  Mattie," 
she  continued,  "shure  she's  wid  him.  He's  good  to  her, 
acushla,  yer  know  that,  so  don't  yer  worry.  Yes,  after 
Pat  brought  yer  home  and  got  the  doctor,  she  came  in. 
Small  cause  ye  have  to  think  about  her."  Mrs.  Dono- 
hue muttered  as  she  went  to  the  stove  to  fix  some  broth 
for  Jack. 

Mary  went  shyly  to  the  bedside  and  laid  an  apple  on 
the  cover.  The  boy  smiled  at  her,  and  she  went  out  with 
soft,  shining  eyes. 

A  new  life  opened  for  Jack.  There  was  no  one  to 
object  to  his  making  his  home  wherever  he  would.  He 
would  have  been  a  street  waif  living  anywhere,  or  no- 
where, ragged,  hungry,  homeless,  so  far  as  the  busy  world 
was  concerned,  were  it  not  for  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Donohue; 
by  them  he  was  watched  over  carefully.  He  was  the  best 
dressed  boy  in  the  neighborhood ;  his  legs  grew  shapely, 
his  face  round  and  rosy,  the  bones  in  his  neck  were  hid- 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY  57 

den;  his  hair  was  no  longer  shaved  close  to  his  head, 
but  a  comb  and  brush  were  needed  to  keep  it  in  order. 
But  there  was  one  bitter,  bitter  drop  in  Jack's  cup  of 
happiness.  He  had  to  go  to  school.  Each  morning  when 
he  looked  at  Mrs.  Donohue's  face  as  she  got  him  in  order 
he  resolved  he  would  tell  her  what  it  meant  to  him  to  go 
to  school,  but  he  never  had  the  courage,  she  was  so  proud 
of  him ;  so  delighted  in  his  success  which  she  built  out  of 
her  own  imagination. 

"She  don't  know  I'm  in  the  class  with  the  little  kids," 
he  would  mutter  as  he  laggingly  pursued  his  way  to  the 
daily  place  of  torture. 


CHAPTEE  III. 

A  TEAGEDY. 

POOR  Jack !  How  he  was  tortured.  To  stand  dumbly 
before  the  very  babies  on  the  block  because  he  could  not 
see  the  relation  between  those  marks  on  the  board.  He 
knew  a  dog  when  he  saw  one ;  he  knew  a  dog  could  run, 
and  bark,  and  jump.  Jack  would  have  bet  a  hundred 
dollars  against  one  with  the  teacher  that  he  knew  a  dog 
who  could  do  more  things  than  any  dog  in  the  book 
she  gave  him,  told  about.  Haggerty's  dog  Dash  could 
most  talk.  Jack  would  have  liked  to  tell  the  teacher 
about  Dash.  He  would  tell  her  that  Haggerty's  dog 
knew  when  he  was  drunk  just  as  well  as  Mrs.  Haggerty. 
He  was  kinder  to  Haggerty,  too,  than  Mrs.  Haggerty 
was.  She  wished  Haggerty  had  drowned  when  he  fell 
off  the  dock  and  the  dog  pulled  him  out  on  the  raft. 
Jack  heard  her  say  it,  and  Johnny  Haggerty  was  so  mad 
he  ran  away  and  never  came  back  home  for  months ;  he 
had  a  job  in  Boston.  Jack  looked  at  the  teacher,  she  was 
awful  pretty ;  her  hair  was  curly  all  about  her  forehead, 
but  it  did  not  look  as  the  big  girl's  hair  looked  that  he 
knew.  How  nice  the  neck  ribbons  were  fixed  around  her 
neck;  there  weren't  any  straight  hairs  at  the  back  of 
her  neck,  and  her  hands ;  Jack  wished  he  could  touch  her 
hands,  they  were  so  white  and  so  dimpled. 

"I  guess  my  mother  would  have  looked  like  that  if  she 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY  59 

got  a  chance.  Her  neck  was  white  like  the  teacher's." 
She  spoke  very  kindly  to  everybody  but  Jack,  and  to  him 
she  never  spoke  at  all.  Perhaps  it  was  because  he  was 
such  a  big  fellow  to  be  in  the  class  with  kids.  She  did 
not  know  that  he  had  to  hustle  to  help  his  mother,  and 
that  now  was  the  first  chance  he  had  to  go  to  school  every 
day.  Perhaps,  if  he  had  a  father  who  worked  for  him 
always,  like  Billy  Cassidy's  and  Johnny  Brower's,  he 
might  have  been  just  as  smart.  She  was  pretty,  that 
teacher  was,  and  he'd  like  her  to  like  him,  but  she  did  not. 
Jack  sighed.  He  looked  at  the  teacher  and  thought  per- 
haps the  teacher  did  not  like  big  boys ;  she  was  lovely  to 
little  boys ;  the  day  Mark  Stern  fell  asleep  she  took  him 
in  her  lap  and  held  him  till  he  woke  up.  That  must  be 
nice.  It  had  never  happened  to  Jack,  but  then  he  never 
went  to  school  when  he  was  as  little  as  Markie.  Markie 
was  reading  about  a  dog.  How  Jack  did  wish  he  could 
tell  about  Haggerty's  dog ! 

There  was  Lilly  Cassidy  now,  reading  about  cats. 
Jack  never  liked  cats,  and  lost  all  interest  in  the  lesson. 
The  next  Jack  noticed  the  teacher  was  putting  figures 
on  the  board  and  the  class  was  adding  them.  He  held 
his  hands  under  the  desk  and  counted  on  his  fingers,  get- 
ting the  answer  as  quickly  as  anybody,  but  the  teacher 
would  not  let  him  count  on  his  fingers  when  his  turn 
came.  He  was  glad  that  wasn't  often.  It  was  fooling 
away  time,  anyway,  coming  to  school.  He  got  the  change 
right  when  he  went  to  the  store,  and  not  one  of  the 
gang  could  get  the  best  of  him  in  craps  or  pitching  pen- 
nies. What  more  did  any  fellow  want  anyway? 

Then  the  fellows  in  the  gang  laughed  at  him  for 


60  THE   STORY   OF 

going  to  school  with  kids.  The  "fellers"  were  just  like 
Jack.  They  had  to  hustle  and  get  money  so  they  could 
help  their  mothers,  or  they  had  to  look  out  for  them- 
selves. Of  course,  some  of  them  could  go  to  school  some- 
times, but  they  would  not  because  they  would  be  put  in 
with  the  kids  just  as  he  was.  Nobody  made  them  go,  so 
they  didn't  go.  Again  Jack  sighed.  The  fellows  laughed 
at  him  and  called  him  a  kid  because  he  went  to  school. 
To-day  they  were  all  going  with  Harrigan's  Club  to  a 
chowder.  The  big  "fellers"  were  going,  and  they  were 
taking  the  gang.  If  his  mother  were  alive  she  would 
let  him  go.  His  spine  straightened ;  he  would  not  need 
to  ask  her ;  if  he  wanted  to  go  he  would  go ;  she  would  not 
say  anything.  Now  he  could  not — his  spine  collapsed — 
he  could  not  understand  why,  but  he  would  not  mention 
to  Mr.  Donohue  the  chowder  party  and  the  invitation  to 
the  gang,  of  which  he,  in  spite  of  his  youth,  had  been  an 
invited  guest.  He  knew  Mr.  Donohue  knew  all 
about  the  chowder  and  all  the  "fellers"  going.  Neither 
had  spoken  of  it.  Jack  understood  he  was  not  to  go. 
It  was  nice  to  have  a  bed  clean  and  in  order,  clothes 
new  and  whole,  and  a  place  where  you  knew  the  folks 
wanted  you,  but  you  had  to  give  up  a  lot.  The  day  was 
beautiful  even  in  the  dusky  classroom.  The  "fellers" 
liked  him,  and  had  coaxed  him  to  go,  but  something  held 
Jack  back.  His  eyes  rested  on  the  walls  of  the  tenement 
about  five  feet  away  from  the  windows  of  the  classroom. 
Tommy  Donogan  and  Henry  Schoeb  lived  in  that  house. 
He  smiled  as  he  thought  of  the  evening  they  tied  Hag- 
gerty  in  Henry's  father's  push-cart  and  rolled  him  down 
to  the  hospital  leaving  him  at  the  door.  Haggerty  got 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY  61 

run  in;  the  doctors  sent  for  the  police;  but  he  did  look 
funny  on  the  cart. 

"John  Kerry !"  The  teacher's  voice  rang  through  the 
room. 

How  lonely  Dash  was,  and  how  he  hunted  for  Hag- 
gerty  after  they  let  him  out  of  Kerrigan's  cellar  that 
night.  Jack  remembered  how  the  whole  of  the  ten  days 
he  had  run  errands  for  the  butcher  and  took  his  pay 
in  scraps  for  Dash.  Then  the  smile  left  his  face ;.  he 
remembered  how  hungry  he  was  all  that  time.  Mattie 
was  out  of  work,  and  his  mother  could  only  get  work  at 
the  Charities,  and  that  didn't  pay  much,  there  was  so 
little  of  it. 

"John  Kerry!"  Again  the  sound  rang  through  the 
room.  It  was  not  the  name  that  attracted  Jack's  atten- 
tion, but  the  expression  in  the  face  of  the  boy  in  front 
of  him  who  turned  in  his  seat  and  winked.  Jack  looked 
around  and  found  that  the  boys  in  his  row  were  standing 
up,  and  that  the  teacher  was  glaring  at  him. 

"John  Kerry,  stand  up !"  she  shouted  in  anger. 

Jack  sprang  to  his  feet.  Of  course  John  Kerry  meant 
him,  but  he  had  never  heard  the  name  but  three  times : 
when  Mr.  Donohue  told  the  principal  the  day  he  brought 
him  to  school ;  when  the  principal  told  the  teacher  when 
she  brought  him  to  the  class,  and  once  when  he  could 
not  remember  how  much  three  and  three  made  when  they 
were  marks  on  a  black  wall,  the  teacher  pronounced  his 
name.  She  was  mad  that  time,  the  teacher  was ;  she  was 
mad  now.  Jack  was  sorry.  He  wished  he  could  tell  her 
to  call  him  Jack;  then  he  would  know  she  meant  him. 


62  THE   STORY   OF 

But  the  law  in  that  kingdom  admitted  of  no  defence,  it 
was  not  a  place  for  differences  of  opinion. 

Jack  was  so  confused  that  he  could  not  tell  how  much 
three  and  three  were.  The  scorn  on  the  face  of  the 
teacher  for  a  boy  as  large  as  John  Kerry,  who  could  not 
tell  how  many  three  and  three  were,  was  reflected  in  the 
faces  of  all  in  the  class.  Poor  Jack !  School  was  the  one 
place  where  he  always  felt  mean. 

The  teacher  called  on  Lilly  Cassidy,  the  smallest  girl 
in  the  class;  she  answered  at  once,  giving  her  skirts  a 
little  flirt  as  she  sat  down,  and  tossed  her  curly  head  as 
she  looked  triumphantly  at  Jack.  The  class  beamed  on 
Lilly.  In  bitter  shame  Jack  sat  down  resolving  solemnly 
that  he  would  never  come  to  school  again.  The  rest  of 
the  morning  was  a  blank. 

Jack  went  home  to  his  dinner;  Mrs.  Donohue  had 
bacon  and  cabbage.  How  good  it  was!  Mr.  Donohue 
beamed,  and  Mrs.  Donohue  talked.  "Shure,  yer  beat 
every  wan  o'  them  this  day,  I  bet  yer,"  she  commented. 
"There  ain't  wan  of  them  can  come  up  ter  yer,  shure,  I 
know,"  announced  Mrs.  Donohue  with  proud  assurance 
when  they  sat  back  from  the  table.  "If  yer  bring  home 
wan  of  them  keerds  like  Lilly  Cassidy  brings  home,  shure 
there's  no  tellin'  what  might  happen.  There  do  be 
watches  fer  byes,"  and  her  smile  was  beautiful  as  she 
looked  confidently  at  him  and  knowingly  at  her  husband 
beaming  his  approval. 

Jack's  resolution  melted.  He  would  go  back  to  school 
and  try  hard.  He  waited  for  Mr.  Donohue,  and  they 
walked  to  the  corner  together.  He  whistled  as  he  walked 
on  toward  the  school.  Mr.  Donohue  looked  after  him 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY  63 

with  pride,  saying  to  himself,  "He's  likin'  it  better; 
Maggie's  a  fine  one." 

Jack  went  into  his  classroom  with  almost  soldierly 
bearing.  He  would,  he  would  work  hard  and  get  the 
cards  and  be  promoted.  He'd  tell  Mary  Cahill ;  she  was 
in  the  class  with  the  biggest  girls ;  he'd  tell  her,  and  she'd 
help  him.  His  fingers  went  toward  his  vest  pocket,  he 
almost  felt  the  watch  there.  He  listened  to  the  teacher ; 
he  followed  each  word  as  the  other  children  pronounced 
them.  The  marks  on  the  board  took  a  meaning.  The 
one  that  looked  like  a  knot  half  tied  was  2,  and  the  two 
curves  was  3;  and  the  one  that  was  like  the  top  of  a 
telegraph  pole  with  half  the  bar  knocked  off  and  hang- 
ing, was  4.  These  resemblances  and  identifications  were 
mental  connections  when  this  student  went  into  the 
street.  He  never  waited  for  Mary  Cahill  near  the  school 
now.  The  first  day  he  waited,  and  the  girls  called  out, 
"Mary  Cahill  is  Jack's  best  girl.  Jack  is  Mary  Cahill's 
beau."  Girls  were  such  fools !  Mary  Cahill  did  not  like 
it  'cause  she  never  came  near  the  dock  that  afternoon, 
and  Mrs.  Donohue  had  to  coax  her  to  tea  that  night  and 
the  next.  He  didn't  like  it,  but  it  would  take  more  than 
that  to  keep  him  away  from  Mary. 

He  went  down  to  Mr.  Donohue  before  he  went  home. 
The  moment  for  an  understanding  had  come.  With 
many  pauses  the  story  of  the  embarrassments  and  trou- 
bles of  his  school  life  was  told.  Mr.  Donohue  smoked 
volumes  of  smoke  and  resented  the  interruptions  of  the 
arriving  and  departing  trucks.  His  interest  freed  Jack's 
tongue.  He  explained  about  the  "kids,"  and  told  who 
they  were  that  his  position  might  be  understood.  The 


64  THE   STORY   OF 

face  which  Jack  glanced  into  now  and  then  looked  dis- 
couraged. Jack  thought  on  his  account;  he  did  not 
know  that  he  was  talking  of  an  unknown  world  governed 
by  conditions  the  man  could  not  understand.  Two  facts 
the  man  comprehended,  and  these  were  sufficient :  Jack 
was  not  as  smart  as  Cassidy's  Lilly,  but  Mary  Cahill 
was  smart,  and  would  help  him. 

"Yer  must  get  as  big  in  yer  head  as  yer  are  in  yer 
body/'  was  his  injunction.  Jack  understood  him  and 
agreed  with  him. 

"We'll  not  tell  Maggie.    Ye'll  get  the  cards  I'm  sure." 

Jack  nodded  confidently ;  the  man  and  the  boy  walked 
more  closely  together  going  home  to  supper.  The  neigh- 
bors smiled  in  sympathy,  for  no  man  in  the  ward  was 
more  loved  than  Pat  Donohue;  some  of  them  remem- 
bered that  awful  day  when  Jimmy  was  carried  home  in 
his  father's  arms.  Men  and  women  remembered  that 
Pat  was  never  the  same.  "And  Maggie !  shure,  it  broke 
her  heart.  Oh,  well,  it's  harder  for  a  mother,"  and  faces 
eloquent  with  sympathy  were  turned  to  man  and  boy 
too  absorbed  in  their  own  problem  to  notice  those  who 
watched  them. 

After  supper  Jack  and  Mary  hung  out  of  the  window 
talking  in  a  low  tone.  The  compact  was  made,  Mary 
was  to  help  Jack  to  get  the  cards  and  to  be  promoted. 

That  was  weeks  ago.  Now  Mrs.  Cahill  was  home  and 
Mary  did  not  come  to  Mrs.  Donohue's  at  all ;  her  mother 
whipped  her  if  she  did.  When  they  met  on  the  dock 
Mary  never  said  a  word  of  her  mother  or  gave  any 
glimpses  of  her  life.  What  Jack  knew  he  learned  from 
others'  comments.  Mary  never  referred  to  her  mother. 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY  65 

The  pink  dress  was  shabby  and  dirty,  the  shoes  un- 
buttoned, the  auburn  hair  tangled  and  dull  these  days. 
Mary  was  living  the  life  she  knew  best.  There  was  a 
beautiful  dream  of  order,  cleanliness,  and  quiet  which 
the  child  lived  over  again  as  she  stretched  out  on  the 
uncovered  mattress  in  the  dark,  dirty  bedroom.  Things 
had  always  been  better  for  a  time  in  the  home  of  Mr. 
Cahill  after  Mrs.  Cahill's  lapses,  but  this  time  she  had  a 
grievance ;  she  had  paid  the  penalty  for  her  sin ;  no  one 
interfered  to  prevent  it.  This  last  lapse  had  accom- 
plished her  degradation.  She  had  been  "sent  up,"  and 
now  moved  in  the  community  a  marked  woman.  The 
women  who  had  been  in  the  habit  of  exchanging  the 
neighborly  courtesy  of  a  glass  of  beer,  merely  bowed  as 
they  met  her  in  the  street  or  hallway.  Her  husband  had 
not  mentioned  her  absence  nor  welcomed  her  back.  Mary 
had  kissed  her  and  cried  over  her,  a  balm  to  the  sore- 
hearted,  remorseful  woman  who  shrank  from  the  expres- 
sion in  Mary's  face  even  when  she  kissed  her.  She  sat 
by  the  window  one  afternoon  two  weeks  after  her  return ; 
the  rooms  were  untidy;  she  had  not  combed  her  hair; 
not  a  woman  had  come  to  see  her.  In  the  moment  of  her 
greatest  weakness  she  had  held  aloof  from  the  women 
who  knew  the  Island  intimately;  the  bitter  truth  was 
being  forced  home  to  her  that  she  had  dropped  in  the 
social  scale,  dropped  to  their  level;  they  were  waiting 
her  recognition  of  their  claims  to  equality.  She  knew 
that  among  those  of  the  community  whose  opinion 
counted,  her  husband  and  child  were  objects  of  pity.  She 
rebelled  against  this;  she  resented  the  quiet  endurance 
of  her  husband;  the  shame  unconsciously  displayed  by 


66  THE   STORY   OF 

her  child.  She  glanced  at  the  clock.  Mary  should  have 
been  home  from  school  an  hour  ago.  She  raised  the  win- 
dow ;  Mary  was  coming  down  the  street  looking  trim  and 
pretty.  As  she  approached  the  house  Mollie  Mulligan 
came  from  the  alley;  Mary  was  reading  as  she  walked 
slowly  along;  she  glanced  at  Mollie  as  she  reached  the 
doorway,  but  did  not  stop ;  Mollie  leaned  over  the  railing 
and  screamed  after  her :  "Yer  needn't  put  on  airs,  yer 
mother  just  got  out  of  jail ;  ye're  no  better  than  I  am." 
The  woman  closed  the  window.  She  was  faint;  it  was 
more  than  she  dreamed.  Why  was  it  that  this  demon 
was  inside  of  her  clamoring  for  relief,  which  meant 
all  this  suffering  to  follow?  It  was  a  great  gnawing, 
physical  pain  even  now.  She  looked  about  her,  dirt,  dis- 
order, poverty,  and  now  disgrace,  all  because  of  this 
thirst  she  could  not  quench.  Mary  opened  the  door,  she 
was  crying,  her  face  crimson.  To  cover  what  she  knew, 
the  mother  asked  weakly,  "What  is  the  matter  ?" 

"Nothing,"  was  the  response,  and  the  only  greeting 
the  mother  received  as  Mary  put  her  books  down. 

The  child  removed  her  hat,  the  damp  curls  lay  in 
rings  on  her  forehead,  her  hands  were  clean,  and  her 
clothes  in  order,  even  her  shoes  were  polished;  every- 
thing about  the  child  was  at  war  with  her  surroundings ; 
her  mother  recognized  it ;  she  suddenly  remembered  that 
it  was  different;  there  was  something  new  in  the  home, 
besides  the  disgrace  she  brought  to  it  that  made  that 
worse.  A  thought  came  into  her  mind : 

"Where  have  you  been  since  school  ?" 

"At  Mrs.  Donohue's  helping  Jack;  he's  trying  to  get 
promoted." 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY  67 

The  mother  looked  at  the  child  critically. 

"Did  she  comb  yer  hair?" 

"Yes,  and  blackened  me  shoes,  and  mended  me  petti- 
coat/' was  the  response,  without  removing  her  eyes  from 
the  book. 

She  was  startled  by  a  gasping  cry  from  her  mother 
as  she  caught  her  by  the  shoulders  and  hissed,  rather 
than  spoke,  "I'll  break  every  bone  in  yer  body  if  yer 
enter  her  door  again.  Der  yer  hear  me  ?" 

Mary  nodded,  too  frightened  to  speak.  Her  mother 
had  never  been  like  this  before.  The  child  sank  back 
in  the  chair  trembling,  her  eyes  black  with  fright. 

It  was  a  mere  paroxysm.  The  next  day  the  mother 
asked  questions.  "Who  did  the  work?  Where  did  they 
get  their  meals  while  she  was  visiting  Mary's  aunt  in  the 
country?"  Neither  mother  or  child  attempted  to  look 
at  each  other.  As  the  embarrassment  wore  off  Mary 
talked  freely.  She  described  the  joys  of  Mrs.  Donohue's, 
and  the  "grand"  food  they  had.  Slowly  and  deeply  the 
bitter  consciousness  came  that  these  two,  her  child  and 
her  husband,  had  known  the  happiest  days  they  had 
known  in  years  while  she  was  a  prisoner,  an  outlaw. 
From  that  moment  hatred,  bitter  hatred  of  Mrs.  Dono- 
hue  embittered  Mrs.  Cahill's  life.  The  physical  and 
mental  depression  kept  her  from  companionship ;  as  long 
as  this  continued  she  was  safe.  She  knew  nothing  of 
housekeeping  except  what  she  had  learned  in  the  home 
of  her  mother,  and  that  meant  doing  the  work  when  she 
felt  like  it,  and  letting  it  alone  when  she  did  not,  and 
in  these  days  she  never  felt  like  doing  it. 

There  came  a  day  a  month  later,  when  Mary  went 


68  THE  STORY   OF 

home  from  school  to  find  the  old  familiar  scene;  her 
mother  voluble  and  loud-voiced,,  as  were  her  two  friends, 
the  women  Mary  most  dreaded  to  see  in  the  home. 
There  was  a  tin  can  and  glasses  on  the  table  and  the 
odor  the  child  hated  over  all.  As  soon  as  she  opened  the 
door  her  mother's  voice  rose :  "Me  own  child  livin'  on 
the  fat  o'  the  land  wid  no  thought  of  her  mother.  Her 
father  spendin'  his  wages  for  a  new  dress  fer  her  wid  me 
a  workin'  me  life  out  as  innocent  as  a  new-born  child 
among  them  low  things.  It's  hard  when  yer  own  go 
agin  yer/'  The  three  women  were  crying  in  maudlin 
sympathy.  Mary  had  too  much  experience  in  such  en- 
counters not  to  know  the  value  of  silence.  She  wanted 
her  jackstones  up  in  the  closet  and  then  she  would  go 
out  and  come  back  with  her  father.  She  went  to  the 
closet,  climbed  a  chair  to  reach  the  jackstones,  not  no- 
ticing either  her  mother  or  her  visitors.  Something 
stirred  within  her ;  there  came  to  her  for  the  first  time  a 
feeling  of  contempt  and  scorn  for  all  she  saw  in  that 
room,  for  the  womanhood  her  mother  and  her  friends 
represented.  Standing  there  she  all  unconsciously  re- 
vealed in  the  expression  of  her  face  and  figure  what  she 
felt.  As  she  stepped  down  from  the  chair  her  mother 
grabbed  her  by  the  shoulders  and  threw  her  on  the  floor ; 
even  the  women,  after  a  few  minutes,  begged  her  to 
stop.  Her  passion  grew  by  what  it  fed  on.  The  screams 
of  the  women  brought  in  some  neighbors,  and  the  half- 
crazed  mother  was  held  until  Mary  was  raised  from  the 
floor  and  placed  on  the  bed  in  the  dark  bedroom.  The 
child  did  not  move.  The  hush  and  terror  in  the  faces 
of  the  women  sobered  the  mother,  who  sat  dazed  trying 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY  69 

to  understand  what  had  happened.  There  was  a  quick 
step,  an  anxious  voice  asking  of  the  people  in  the  hall, 
"Is  the  child  hurted?"  Mrs.  Donohue  pushed  into  the 
room.  The  sight  of  this  woman  whom  she  held  respon- 
sible for  her  trouble  roused  her ;  she  made  a  rush  at  Mrs. 
Donohue,  and  would  have  struck  her  had  not  Mr.  Cahill 
entered  at  that  moment,  Jack  having  run  after  him 
when  the  children  told  him  that  Mrs.  Cahill  was  drunk 
and  killing  Mary.  Mr.  Cahill  caught  his  wife  by  the 
arms,  whispering  to  Mrs.  Donohue  to  go  home. 

"Where  is  the  child?"  he  demanded  sternly.  The 
women  who  had  been  with  Mrs.  Cahill  slunk  out,  while 
one  of  the  other  women,  white  and  frightened,  came 
out  of  the  bedroom  saying,  "Send  for  a  doctor,  Mr. 
Cahill,  the  child  is  hurt." 

The  father  went  into  the  bedroom ;  he  came  out  carry- 
ing the  child  in  his  arms;  she  lay  limp  and  helpless, 
moaning  as  though  moving  hurt  her.  The  mother,  too 
terrified  to  move,  sat  with  clasped  hands. 

There  was  no  place  to  put  Mary  but  the  dark  bed- 
room. The  father  groaned. 

A  small  boy  had  crept  in.  As  he  looked  at  Mary  a 
great  terror  overpowered  him;  he  did  not  cry;  some- 
thing held  him  by  the  throat.  Was  Mary  dead?  She 
was  as  much  a  part  of  his  life  as  his  mother.  A  sob, 
dry,  hard,  hopeless,  told  of  his  presence. 

"Jack,  get  the  doctor." 

Jack  was  master  of  himself  in  a  moment;  there  was 
something  he  could  do.  He  ran  down  the  street  for  the 
doctor. 

The  mother  stood  up  and  staggered  across  the  room. 


70  THE  STORY  OF 

"My  God!  John,  what  have  I  done?"  Her  face  was 
like  ashes. 

The  child  lay  in  the  curve  of  her  father's  arm  like  a 
baby,  while  his  face,  with  the  deepest  tenderness  and 
pity,  bent  over  her.  He  did  not  notice  his  wife,  nor 
reply  to  her  question. 

"John,  I  did  not  know  what  I  was  doing."  She 
waited.  "Have  I  killed  her,  John?"  The  mother 
moved  closer  to  the  child,  whose  thin,  limp  hand  lay 
on  her  father's  arm.  Suffering  such  tortures  as  the 
father  could  not  know,  the  mother  bent  to  kiss  it.  The 
father  sprang  to  his  feet  trembling  with  rage,  towering 
far  above  the  woman  on  the  floor  whose  eyes,  filled  with 
terror,  were  raised  to  him. 

"D you!  Why  wasn't  it  you?  What  are  yer? 

what  have  yer  been  for  years  ?  I'll  let  them  hang  yer  if 
they  will.  She  was  all  I  had."  He  walked  the  floor 
while  the  woman  cowered  in  horror  and  fright,  thor- 
oughly sobered.  She  did  not  attempt  to  touch  the  child 
again  nor  appeal  to  her  husband.  She  saw  the  great 
gulf  fixed  between  her  and  them.  Never  before  had  the 
sin  of  her  life  been  faced.  Each  lapse  had  been  un- 
expected. Each  recovery  was  followed  by  days  of  silent 
remorse  and  resolve,  soon  forgotten  as  the  woman,  un- 
resisting, drifted  with  the  current  of  temptation  about 
her.  This  time  a  great  anger  had  swept  her  on ;  now  her 
child  was  dead,  and  she  had  killed  her!  She  shrank 
from  the  group  of  women  silent,  waiting  for  the  doctor, 
who  looked  at  her  in  horror  when  their  eyes  left  the  man 
who  walked  the  floor  carrying  the  child,  unconscious  of 
their  presence.  To  her,  as  a  mother,  no  one  gave  a 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY  71 

thought;  the  woman  shrank  not  only  from  them  but  her- 
self. That  she  walked  on  the  edge  of  a  precipice  she 
had  known  at  times  for  years.  Now  she  had  gone  over 
and  no  one  cared,  least  of  all  her  husband.  The  woman 
lost  all  sense  of  feeling  and  stared  at  those  about  her. 
The  crowd  at  the  door  parted  to  let  the  doctor  in.  He 
was  very  young,  too  young  to  have  learned  to  sink  the 
man  in  the  doctor.  He  looked  at  the  face  of  the  father, 
a  great  wave  of  sympathy  rushing -over  him  that  his 
hazel  eyes  raised  to  the  father  fully  expressed.  The  pro- 
fessional manner  tinged  his  voice  as  he  said: 

"Put  her  on  the  bed/'  He  worked  with  the  tender- 
ness of  a  woman.  The  slight,  delicate  little  body  would 
have  aroused  tenderness  in  one  much  more  hardened 
than  the  doctor.  To  the  unspoken  question  of  the 
father,  the  doctor  said:  "Two  ribs  broken,  and  head 
badly  bruised.  How  did  she  fall?" 

Jack,  you  loyal  little  soul,  you  knew  Mary  would  not 
want  you  to  tell  of  her  mother. 

No  one  answered  the  doctor's  question.  There  was 
a  searching  glance  about  the  room,  then  professional 
silence  on  the  part  of  the  doctor.  There  had  been  a 
tragedy,  but  it  was  not  his  to  probe.  His  responsibility 
was  clearly  before  him.  There  was  a  contradiction  be- 
tween the  clean  body  of  the  child  and  her  clothes,  the 
bed,  and  all  her  surroundings.  As  he  put  the  child  back 
on  the  pillow  the  rays  of  the  lamp  fell  on  the  rings  of 
auburn  hair  and  the  long  lashes,  a  feeling  of  repulsion 
amounting  to  anger  moved  him. 

"Can't  you  get  a  sheet  for  this  bed?"  he  demanded 
impatiently. 


72  THE  STORY   OP 

The  blood  mantled  the  father's  cheeks  as  he  said,  "I'll 
get  some  to-night." 

A  small  boy  pushed  in  the  door  and  put  a  bundle  in 
Mr.  Cahill's  hand,  from  it  fell  two  sheets  and  pillow 
cases.  The  quick  eye  of  the  doctor  saw  them,  and  as 
deftly  as  a  woman  he  slipped  one  under  the  child,  cov- 
ered her,  and  arranged  the  pillows. 

"Who  will  take  care  of  the  child  ?  She  must  be  kept 
quiet  for  days/' 

A  woman  pushed  in,  all  the  mother  in  her  roused  and 
demanding  recognition.  "I  will." 

The  doctor  looked  at  her,  and  with  half  contempt, 
turned  to  the  father,  asking,  "Where  is  the  child's 
mother?  Hasn't  she  a  mother?" 

The  man  set  his  jaw  as  if  to  gain  time. 

The  dishevelled  woman  again  came  forward  to  assert 
her  right,  "I'm  her  mother." 

The  doctor  looked  at  her,  at  the  room,  then  said  slowly, 
as  if  he  would  spare  both  father  and  mother  if  he  could : 

"Send  the  child  to  the  hospital.  She  needs  good 
care.  Shall  I  send  for  an  ambulance?" 

"No ;  I'll  give  up  me  work  and  take  care  of  her.  Pat 
will  hold  me  job.  He  knows.  What  is  to  be  done?" 
The  father's  voice  was  stern. 

The  doctor  gave  the  directions,  his  voice  lowering,  his 
manner  growing  more  cordial  as  he  read  the  agony  in  the 
face  of  the  man  who  listened  to  him.  The  doctor 
started  down  the  stairs ;  at  the  landing  a  small  boy  met 
him  whose  face  had  grown  old. 

"Will  she  die,  doctor?" 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY  73 

"No,  not  this  time.  Say,  Johnny,  how  did  your 
sister  get  hurt?" 

"She  fell/'  was  the  reply  as  the  boy  went  quickly  tip 
the  next  flight  of  stairs.  He  listened  at  the  door  for 
some  sound  that  would  tell  him  of  what  was  going  on  in 
that  room. 

Mrs.  Cahill  sat  by  the  window.  No  word  was  spoken, 
not  even  a  glance  exchanged  between  the  husband  and 
wife.  The  father  peered  into  the  hall,  a  boy  stood  close 
to  the  door.  There  was  a  whispered  conversation  and 
the  sound  of  light  running  footsteps.  As  the  door  closed 
the  woman  faced  her  husband. 

"For  God's  sake,  John,  speak.  I  didn't  know  what  I 
was  doin',  shure  yer  know  that." 

"Why  didn't  yer  know  ?  Yer  were  drunk.  D yer ! 

If  it  were  not  for  what  yer  have  been,  I'd  break  every 
bone  in  yer  body  and  swing  fer  it."  His  voice  did  not 
raise  above  a  whisper,  and  the  woman  shrank  before  the 
scorn  in  his  eyes. 

"The  childer  have  been  hollerin'  after  her  fer  a  week. 
She's  hid  in  the  Donohue's  after  school  to  git  away  from 

them.  Now  she  may "  The  man  stopped.  At  the 

mention  of  the  Donohues  Mrs.  Cahill  rose  and  glared 
at  him. 

"Look  at  her,"  he  continued,  "ever  since  she's  been 
there  she's  been  clean  and  dacent,  and  that's  more  than 
can  be  said  of  her  for  many  a  day.  Why  didn't  yer 
stay  where  yer  were  ?  We  knew  peace  widout  yer." 

Something  in  the  woman's  face  stopped  him,  and  he 
entered  the  bedroom  without  a  glance  at  her.  She 
reached  for  a  shawl  and  went  out  the  door. 


74  THE   STORY   OF 

At  midnight  Mr.  Donohue  knocked  lightly  on  the 
door.  It  was  opened  softly. 

"I'm  sorry,  John,  but  they've  just  took  Mary  off  in 
the  patrol  wid  Mulligan's  wife." 

"The  child  will  have  peace  for  a  week  or  more,  I 
guess,"  was  the  comment,  but  the  father  shivered  even 
while  he  spoke,  for  there  came  to  him  the  vision  of  a 
laughing,  rollicking  girl  in  a  gay  hat,  of  whom  he  was 
very  proud,  and  now  she  was  becoming  familiar  to  the 
police — a  common  drunk,  and  she  was  the  mother  of  his 
child.  He  sat  down  at  the  end  of  the  table  and  dropped 
his  head  on  his  arms.  There  was  no  sound  but  the 
ticking  of  the  clock.  Presently  there  was  a  woman's 
step  in  the  room  and  a  woman's  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"Go  home  wid  Pat,  I'll  take  care  of  the  child;  yer 
need  yer  wages.  God  knows  what  will  be  wanted.  If 
the  doctor  will  let  me,  I'll  take  her  to  our  house  to- 
morrer  and  Jack  will  sleep  wid  you  here.  We'll  manage, 
but  go  wid  Pat  now." 

The  two  men  went  out  of  the  door. 

When  morning  came  the  sun  shone  in  a  room  clean 
and  spotless.  Before  noon  Mary  was  lying  on  the  bed 
in  the  inner  room  at  Mrs.  Donohue's  gazing  dreamily 
at  Our  Lady  of  Sorrows  on  the  wall,  who  seemed  to 
know  so  well  of  what  she  was  thinking.  Mrs.  Donohue 
was  in  the  big  rocker  asleep,  holding  fast  to  Mary's 
hand. 

Then  followed  such  lovely  quiet,  peaceful  days  in 
spite  of  pain.  After  school  Jack  sat  with  Mary,  or 
washed  dishes,  peeled  potatoes  with  an  apron  tied  over 
his  new  clothes. 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY  75 

One  day  she  whispered,  "Jack,  it's  more  than  ten 
days." 

Jack  nodded.  He  raised  his  eyes  to  her  face,  then 
said  slowly,  in  a  scarcely  audible  tone:  "She  broke 
Haggerty's  window  with  a  stone,  and  when  Haggerty's 
barkeeper  came  out  she  and  Mrs.  Mulligan  lambed  him ; 
they  smashed  his  face.  The  judge  gave  'em  both  thirty 
days." 

Mary's  eyes  were  black,  her  face  blazing,  her  lip  trem- 
bled as  she  turned  her  head  away. 

Jack  left  the  room.  Why  hadn't  he  lied  ?  He  thought 
she  wanted  to  know  the  truth. 

Her  mother  like  Mrs.  Mulligan!  Mary  saw  herself 
like  Mollie  Mulligan,  dirty,  ragged,  playing  on  the  lum- 
ber, chased  by  the  policemen,  never  going  to  school.  All 
the  girls  would  know  and  scream  it  after  her.  Perhaps 
they'd  tell  the  teacher.  The  sense  of  shame  made  her 
cower  down  further  in  the  bed.  There  was  no  use.  She 
could  not  be  like  the  nice  girls  in  the  class.  Their 

mothers  did  not Even  in  her  thought  she  did  not 

say  the  word.  Again  she  thought  of  Mollie  Mulligan; 
would  she  be  like  that?  Something  in  her  revolted 
against  everything  Mollie  Mulligan  represented.  There 
was  one  ray  of  light ;  her  father  was  not  like  Pat  Mulli- 
gan. No  one  ever  saw  him  standing  at  Haggerty's,  dirty 
and  abusive,  or  lying  in  the  doorway  drunk,  too  drunk 
to  get  up  stairs.  No  one  ever  saw  her  father  fight  with 
her  mother;  he  never  struck  her  mother.  Scene  after 
scene  came  to  her  mind  of  her  father  coaxing  her  mother 
and  keeping  her  home  when  she  would  have  staggered  on 
the  street.  She  had  seen  him  put  her  mother  to  bed 


76  THE  STORY  OP 

out  of  sight  when  she  could  not  take  care  of  herself. 
No ;  she  would  not  be  like  Mollie  Mulligan,  because  she 
had  her  own  father.  The  child  turned  again  to  the 
picture  of  Our  Lady  of  Sorrows  with  a  soft  smile  on  her 
lips,  the  light  of  a  deep  love  in  her  heart;  this  was  the 
expression  her  father  saw  when  he  came  home  at  noon, 
as  she  lay  with  one  cheek  pillowed  on  her  hand  asleep. 

"Shure,  what  will  she  do  when  she  knows?"  was  his 
anxious  inquiry,  as  he  turned  to  Mrs.  Donohue.  Jack 
sat  by  the  window  listening.  "The  other  was  bad 
enough,  but  this  is  worse.  Ought  I  to  send  her  away? 
I  don't  want  her  like  Mollie  Mulligan."  Jack  turned 
an  indignant  face  toward  him.  "How  can  I  manage?" 

"Shure,  yer  don't  have  to  settle  that  to-day,  John. 
Yer  mustn't  send  her  away  from  her  mother,  I  know 
that."  Mr.  Donohue  turned  a  face  expressive  of  deep- 
est sympathy  toward  his  wife. 

Before  the  end  of  the  month  Mary  was  up,  and  had 
been  out  with  her  father.  Two  new  dresses  and  many 
other  needed  articles  were  newly  acquired  possessions. 

Mrs.  Donohue  had  for  many  days  disappeared  in  the 
afternoon,  returning  flushed  and  tired.  To  Mary,  her 
father  seemed  happier.  Jack  puzzled  her.  He  looked  at 
her  as  if  he  wanted  to  tell  her  something  and  then  did 
not.  He  had  a  secret.  Had  something  else  happened 
to  her  mother?  How  could  anything  happen  to  her 
there,  unless  she  was  sick  ?  Surely  they'd  tell  her  if  her 
mother  was  sick. 

Jack  and  Mary  were  down  on  the  dock  for  the  first 
time  since  Mary  was  hurt.  They  sat  behind  the  barrels 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY  77 

waiting  for  quitting  time,  when  the}'  would  go  home 
with  Mr.  Donohue  and  Mary's  father. 

"Jack,  isn't  it  most  thirty  days?" 

"Twenty-eight.     I  marked  each  day  on  a  paper." 

There  was  silence.  Mary's  cheeks  were  two  red  spots. 
The  whistles  blew,  and  the  two  men  came  down  for  the 
children.  There  was  a  cloud  that  did  not  lift  even  at 
the  table. 

Mary  watched  Jack  help  Mrs.  Donohue  wash  the 
dishes.  That  there  was  a  secret  she  did  not  share,  Mary 
felt  sure. 

"Come,  Mary,  we'll  go  home."  It  was  her  father's 
voice. 

"Can't  I  come  back?" 

"To-night,  acushla;  but  you  must  be  home  day  after 
to-morrow,  for  yer  mother  will  want  yer  there." 

Mrs.  Donohue's  face  was  bright,  but  her  eyes  looked 
as  if  she  wanted  to  cry. 

Mary  and  her  father  mounted  the  stairs  to  their  own 
home  slowly. 

"It's  foine  ye  are,  Mr.  Cahill,"  was  the  comment  of  a 
woman  who  lived  on  the  same  floor,  when  they  passed 
her  on  the  stairs. 

Mary  looked  at  her  father,  who  smiled.  He  took  the 
key  out  of  his  pocket  and  opened  the  door.  Mary  stood 
still.  A  new  rag  carpet  covered  the  floor  almost  to  the 
stove,  which  was  as  shining  and  black  as  Mrs.  Dono- 
hue's ;  under  it  was  a  bright  oilcloth  to  the  closet ;  a  red 
cover  was  on  the  table,  and  there  was  a  new  rocker  by 
the  window.  The  bed  was  covered  by  a  clean  spread 
and  looked  as  if  all  clean;  the  top  of  the  bureau  was 


78  THE  STORY  OF 

covered  by  a  white  cover.  As  Mary  turned  she  saw  a 
new  lounge  and  knew  it  was  for  her.  She  had  slept 
always  across  the  foot  of  the  bed  in  the  bedroom,  or  on 

the  floor  when  her  mother  was ,  but  now  she  was  to 

have  a  bed  of  her  own.  Her  father  sat  down  enjoying  her 
surprise  and  delight.  Mary  knew  now  why  her  father 
had  worked  overtime  on  the  docks;  it  was  to  get  these 
things.  The  little  girl  looked  the  gratitude  she  could 
not  express.  Mary  knew  now  where  Mrs.  Donohue  had 
gone  every  afternoon,  coming  home  so  tired;  she  knew 
the  secret  that  Jack  had  kept  so  well.  Her  face  was 
bright  with  happiness.  But  in  the  mind  of  the  man 
and  the  child  was  the  same  question :  Would  the  change 
in  her  home  make  a  change  in  the  life  of  the  woman 
on  whom  depended  their  happiness? 

When  Mary  went  back  she  flew  into  Mrs.  Donohue's 
arms  and  whispered,  "It  is  lovely !  I  know  mama  will 
like  it/'  then  lower  still,  "she  will  be  better." 

Two  days  later  Mary  sat  in  the  new  rocker  waiting 
for  her  mother.  In  the  closet  in  a  tin  pail  was  a  stew 
waiting  to  be  warmed;  the  fire  was  ready  to  light;  the 
tea  was  in  the  teapot,  and  a  loaf  of  fresh  bread  in  a 
towel  to  keep  it  warm.  Mrs.  Donohue  had  gone. 

"Kiss  yer  mother,  acushla.  Yer  don't  know,  and  God 
grant  yer  never  may  know  the  cry  within  her  that  drives 
her  mad.  Yer  father  is  good,  but  he's  not  like  Pat.  Yer 
must  love  yer  mother,  and  don't  go  to  school.  Watch 
her,  me  child,  and  keep  it  from  her.  Every  day  ye  keep 
it  from  her  will  make  her  stronger.  Stay  from  school 
and  keep  the  women  from  her.  A  woman  can  be  saved 
by  her  child  when  her  husband  don't  understand.  Help 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY  79 

yer  mother,  dearie,  no  finer  girl  ever  stepped,  full  of  fun 
and  life,  than  she  was."  The  door  closed  and  the  child 
sat  waiting.  There  were  the  usual  noises  in  the  hall  and 
street.  The  going  up  and  down  of  feet,  the  rumbling 
of  carts,  the  calling  of  venders,  the  whistles  of  the  boats 
on  the  river.  Every  step  aroused  hope  and  fear.  Hope 
that  it  was  her  mother,  fear  that  she  would  not  do  the 
right  thing,  but  no  step  stopped  at  that  door. 

"Don't  let  the  women  know  ye're  here ;  they  might  stop 
and  wait  for  her,  and  it  isn't  best,"  was  one  of  Mrs. 
Donohue's  injunctions,  so  the  child  sat  alone.  The 
noises  went  on,  the  hands  of  the  clock  moved  over  the 
face;  Mary  had  gone  over  her  school  books,  worked  out 
examples,  and  now  was  idle  and  restless.  The  whistles 
blew,  Mary  lighted  the  fire  and  set  the  table  as  she  had 
seen  Mrs.  Donohue  do.  Her  father  came,  gave  a  quick 
glance  about  the  room.  Both  dreaded  the  same  thing. 
About  nine  o'clock  there  was  a  noise  at  the  street  door; 
loud  laughter,  followed  by  stumbling  steps  in  the  hall 
and  on  the  stairs.  Presently  there  was  fumbling  at  the 
knob,  and  a  woman  dirty  and  dishevelled  came  stagger- 
ing in.  She  would  have  fallen  in  her  torn  skirt  if  her 
husband  had  not  caught  her.  He  flung  her  on  the 
lounge  where  she  lay  too  drunk  to  move.  In  a  few 
minutes  she  was  asleep;  her  face  bloated  and  scratched, 
her  hair  fallen  over  her  face,  a  disgusting  object  to  the 
tall  man  whose  face  expressed  his  loathing.  Mary  had 
grown  up  in  the  interval  between  the  entrance  of  her 
mother  and  the  moment  when  she  caught  the  expression 
on  her  father's  face.  She  stepped  up  to  the  lounge,  took 
off  her  mother's  bonnet,  got  a  towel,  and  wiped  her 


80  THE   STORY   OF 

mother's  face,  brushing  back  the  great  mass  of  bronze 
hair  and  braided  it,  lifted  the  helpless  hands,  and  put 
them  beside  her  on  the  lounge. 

When  Mary  looked  in  her  father's  face  what  he  saw 
there  moved  him.  His  child  defended  her  mother 
against  him,  against  his  every  thought.  Her  mother 
was  Mary's  care. 

In  the  morning  Mr.  Cahill  was  very  quiet.  Mary  had 
covered  her  mother  so  that  he  could  not  see  her  face. 
He  had  made  coffee,  and  the  rolls  were  OE.  the  table  when 
Mary  woke.  Trim  and  tidy  was  the  little  figure  step- 
ping softly  about.  They  did  not  talk. 

As  Mr.  Cahill  just  before  going  out  the  door  said 
quietly  to  Mary,  "I  better  tell  yer  meself,  Mrs.  Mulli- 
gan is  dead;  Pat  was  arrested  this  morning.  Pat 
knocked  her  down  after  she  came  home.  It's  hard  on 
Mollie."  His  strong  hand  was  on  her  head.  One  less 
to  tempt  the  woman  on  the  lounge. 

The  child  shivered  as  he  closed  the  door.  She  tiptoed 
about,  hoping  yet  dreading  that  her  mother  would 
awake. 

There  was  a  movement  on  the  lounge;  Mrs.  Cahill 
turned  over  and  looked  about  her.  She  sat  up.  Mary 
poured  out  a  cup  of  tea  and  took  it  to  her.  She  drank 
it  and  held  out  the  cup  for  more;  when  she  drank  this 
she  stood  up  and  took  in  slowly  the  change  in  the  home. 
She  knew  why  it  liad  been  done,  and  realized  how  she 
had  entered  it  the  night  before.  She  buried  her  head  in 
her  hands  and  her  body  shook  with  sobs.  Mary  wept 
with  her.  When  both  were  quiet  Mary  took  out  a  new 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY  81 

blue  wrapper  from  the  bureau  and  said  timidly,  "Don't 
you  want  to  put  it  on?  there's  other  things  there." 

Meekly  the  mother  went  into  the  bedroom  and  came 
out  looking  refreshed  and  tidy,  her  hair  in  a  great  glossy 
roll  on  top  of  her  head. 

"We  must  have  a  good  dinner  for  yer  father;  have 
yer  any  money?" 

"There's  a  stew  in  the  closet,  and  bread.  We  didn't 
eat  it  last  night."  She  regretted  in  a  moment  she  had 
said  it,  for  her  mother's  face  grew  crimson.  Her  mother 
knew  why  there  was  no  money  in  the  house. 

The  hours  dragged.  She  saw  her  mother  drink  cup 
after  cup  of  tea. 

Again  her  mother  asked  her  if  she  had  money.  Mary 
knew  she  must  watch,  watch  every  minute  and  keep  the 
women  out. 

Mrs.  Cahill  stood  looking  out  of  the  window  when  the 
undertaker's  wagon  drove  up.  She  started.  "Who's 
dead?" 

"Mrs.  Mulligan.  Pat  struck  her  and  she  fell.  He 
was  took  off  in  the  patrol." 

Mrs.  CahilPs  face  was  white. 

"He  was  drunk,  too,  when  she  came  home  and  they 
had  a  fight,"  continued  Mary,  more  from  a  general  than 
specific  knowledge.  "I  wonder  what  Mollie  will  do.  Her 
aunt  won't  have  her,  she's  so  bad."  Mary  looked  around. 
Her  mother  was  sitting  in  the  chair  by  the  window ;  she 
did  not  speak,  and  Mary  could  not  see  her  face. 

The  house  for  a  time  was  tidy;  but  one  day  Mary 
came  home  and  the  spread  was  gone  from  the  bed;  her 
mother  was  asleep  on  the  lounge.  Mary  leaned  over  her. 


82  THE   STORY   OF 

"She's  pawned  it,"  she  whispered.  "She's  going  off 
again;  I  mustn't  go  to  school." 

The  next  day,  moody  and  irritable  by  turns,  Mrs. 
Cahill  went  about  the  house.  About  ten  o'clock  she 
remembered  the  time  and  asked  Mary  crossly  why  she 
didn't  go  to  school. 

"I'm  not  goin  to-day,"  was  the  reply,  with  a  search- 
ing glance  at  her  mother.  Whatever  reply  was  to  be 
made  was  interrupted.  One  of  the  women  Mary  most 
disliked  knocked  and  entered,  carrying  a  pail.  She 
looked  surprised  when  she  saw  Mary. 

"Come  in,  Mrs.  Donovan ;  I'm  glad  to  see  yer.  How's 
the  baby?" 

"I  took  him  to  mother  while  I  did  a  bit  of  washing. 
Get  a  glass,  child." 

Mary  did  not  move.  Her  mother  went  to  the  closet, 
eagerly  drinking  the  glass  of  beer  poured  out  by  her 
neighbor.  When  the  can  was  empty  the  woman  handed 
Mary  a  dime,  saying,  "Eun  on  to  Haggerty's  and  get  a 
pint." 

The  money  dropped  to  the  floor,  as  Mary,  looking  at 
the  woman  and  then  at  her  mother,  said : 

"I'll  never  go  into  Haggerty's;  I'll  never  buy  one 
drop  of  the  stuff  for  my  mother  or  any  one  else." 

There  was  silence,  a  silence  that  made  her  heart  stand 
still ;  it  was  pierced  by  the  sharp  clang  of  an  ambulance 
bell,  then  there  was  a  swift  blow  and  Mary  was  on 
the  floor,  her  mother  banging  her  head  in  a  fury  of 
rage.  Mary  heard  the  door  open  and  the  neighbors  come 
in.  When  she  opened  her  eyes  she  was  on  the  lounge,  and 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY  83 

her  father  was  with  her.  Her  head  was  bruised  and 
ached,  and  she  was  tired. 

"Where  was  Mrs.  Donohue  ?    Why  didn't  she  come  ?" 

"Pat  dead!"  She  lay  still  repeating  it  under  her 
breath.  Again  she  seemed  to  hear  the  clang  of  the  ambu- 
lance. It  was  for  him.  "What  would  Mrs.  Donohue  do  ? 
She  must  go  to  her."  Mary  tried  to  raise  her  head  but 
could  not. 

"Where  is  my  mother  ?"    This  time  she  sat  up. 

"I  think  she  was  frightened  this  time.  She  thought 
"  He  stopped.  Mary  understood.  The  expres- 
sion of  hopelessness  in  her  white  face  moved  her  father. 
He  crossed  the  room,,  and,  sitting  beside  her,  smoothed 
her  hair  for  a  moment,  then  in  despair  broke  down,  say- 
ing, "God  help  us,  child;  we  can  do  nothin'." 

The  light  of  day  passed  over  the  river.  A  man  and 
a  child  holding  fast  to  each  other  saw  no  light  promised 
for  the  coming  day,  or  the  days  to  follow.  In  the 
heart  of  the  man  there  was  loathing ;  in  the  heart  of  the 
child  a  great  brooding  love  reaching  out  after  the  woman 
too  weak  to  care  for  herself. 

In  a  rear  house  down  the  street  three  women  sat  in 
the  light  of  a  smoking  lamp,  lost  to  thought  of  time 
and  space. 

"Thrue  fer  yer,  Mrs.  Cahill,  a  man  should  give  his 
wages  to  his  wife,  and  not  keep  her  a  beggar,  a  hangin' 
on  her  neighbors  for  every  drop  she  gets." 

"It's  good  ye've  been  to  me  these  weeks,  Mrs.  Dono- 
van. I'll  make  it  up  to  yer.  I'll  do  as  ye  say,  and  take 
it  from  his  pockets.  It's  smart  ye  are,  and  a  good 
neighbor." 


84  THE   STORY   OF 

In  lordly  generosity  Mrs.  Donovan  stood  up.  "Shure, 
ye're  not  so  bad  off ;  there's  yer  widding  ring." 

Mrs.  Cahill  started. 

"Ye  might  .get  the  price  of  several  quarts  wid  that. 
I'll  take  it  if  yer  don't  want  to  be  seen." 

"I  couldn't,  Mrs.  Donovan,  shure  I  couldn't." 

A  wave  of  anger  swept  over  Mrs.  Donovan's  face. 
"Shure,  some  women  are  made  that  way ;  they  can  drink 
when  they  don't  have  to  pay  anything.  Blast  yer,  yer 
helped  drink  up  my  wedding  ring  weeks  ago." 

Mrs.  Cahill  handed  her  the  ring.  When  Mrs.  Donovan 
came  back  she  carried  a  foaming  pail,  and  Mr.  Donovan 
and  Pat  Mulligan  were  with  her. 

In  the  morning  the  woman  on  the  floor  above  came 
down  and  took  the  Donovan  baby  to  its  grandmother. 
It  had  cried  all  night. 

There  was  absolute  silence  for  the  first  time  in  the 
home  where  Mr.  Donohue  lay.  Mrs.  Donohue  was  on 
the  bed  with  Jack  beside  her  in  the  inner  room. 

"I  can't  widout  Pat,  I  can't,"  were  the  sentences  re- 
peated over  and  over  again.  Her  face  was  white  and 
drawn.  She  did  not  sleep  and  would  not  eat.  Her 
husband's  sister  was  in  charge.  The  utmost  had  been 
done  in  the  way  of  funeral  decorations.  The  coffin 
stood  on  a  black  rug;  the  mantel  was  covered  with 
heavy  black  cloth  trimmed  with  cord  and  tassels,  as 
were  the  windows  and  the  mirror  between ;  candles  were 
burning  in  towering  brass  candlesticks  at  the  head  of 
the  coffin,  the  only  light  in  the  room.  Nothing  had  been 
left  undone.  There  were  steps  in  the  outer  room,  and 
then  a  woman's  voice: 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY  85 

"Not  a  bite  does  she  eat.  ISTo,  nor  a  sip  will  she  take. 
Shure  I  don't  know  what  to  do  for  her;  she  lies  there 
muttering  like  a  crazy  woman,  and  won't  let  that  bye 
leave  her  for  a  minute/'  were  the  grieved  confidences 
of  the  masterful  woman,  Mr.  Donohue's  sister,  to  a 
sympathetic  neighbor.  There  was  some  response,  and 
then  Jack  heard  again: 

"Shure,  he'll  have  to  shift  like  the  rest  of  them.  They 
pampered  him  fairly.  I  told  Pat  the  last  time  I  saw 
him,  'shure  if  he  had  money  and  clothes  to  give  away 
he'd  better  give  them  to  his  own  and  not  to  strangers/ 
Shure  me  own  byes  is  as  fine  as  him,  but  Maggie  never 
took  to  them  and  Pat  listened  to  her.  Pace  to  his  soul. 
Yes,  as  I  was  sayin',  he'll  haft  ter  shift  fer  himself, 
Maggie'll  go  to  her  sister's.  His  coat  do  be  fittin'  my 
Jimmy,  and  he'll  wear  it  to  the  funeral." 

Jack  had  thrown  himself  on  the  bed  beside  Mrs. 
Donohue  who  had  fallen  asleep.  He  stood  up.  His  coat 
and  shoes  were  gone.  He  had  not  noticed  before.  He 
opened  the  drawers  in  which  his  shirts  and  underclothes 
had  been  kept ;  the  drawers  were  empty.  For  a  moment 
he  expected  to  demand  his  own.  He  knew  what  would 
follow  if  he  said  one  word.  There  must  be  peace  in 
that  home.  Peace,  for  the  man  lying  so  still  loved  it. 
Peace  for  the  helpless,  broken-hearted  woman  on  the 
bed,  who  was  as  homeless  as  he  would  be  when  all  this 
was  over.  Jack  sat  down.  Clothes  were  the  least  of 
what  had  been  taken  from  him.  Again  he  threw  him- 
self on  the  bed,  putting  his  arm  around  the  neck  of  the 
half-conscious  woman  who  turned  her  face  to  him, 
resting  her  cheek  against  his. 


86  THE   STORY   OF 

It  was  all  a  part  of  a  confused  dream  till  Jack  found 
himself  homeless.  He  was  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  his  feet 
bare.  Jack  went  to  the  dock.  Mr.  Cahill  was  in 
charge.  The  boy  hid  himself  behind  the  barrels.  Not 
long  after  Mary  joined  him,  white-faced,  with  hollows 
under  her  eyes.  They  greeted  each  other  silently. 

"Where's  yer  coat?" 

"Mrs.  McCaffrey  took  it  for  Jimmy.  I  heard  her  tell 
the  women/' 

"She's  a  thief." 

"What  can  anybody  do  ?"  and  Jack  cried. 

Mary  looked  off  across  the  river  wiping  her  eyes,  but 
not  allowing  herself  to  sob. 

"Where  shall  I  go?  What  shall  I  do?"  asked  Jack 
in  helplessness. 

Mr.  Cahill  joined  them  and  listened  to  all  that  had 
happened.  It  was  not  the  least  of  his  burdens  that  the 
boy  would  be  homeless,  and  he  could  not  prevent  it. 
He  could  not  take  him  home  for  his  wife  might  come 
back  any  minute. 

That  night  in  a  carefully  built  cave  of  barrels  Jack 
slept  on  the  dock.  One  night  he  could  not  sleep  it  was 
so  cold;  he  had  walked  up  and  down  the  dock  several 
times.  Once  more  he  turned  to  the  cave  among  the 
barrels  hoping  this  time  to  protect  himself  from  the 
cold  wind  sweeping  down  the  river.  He  saw  a  woman 
staggering  down  the  dock.  He  watched.  It  might 

be .  He  waited  a  moment,  the  woman  fell  on  her 

knees  and  staggered  up  again.  The  boy  hurried  toward 
her;  before  he  reached  her  she  fell  again.  This  time 
she  did  not  get  up.  Jack  leaned  over  her.  He  lifted 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY  87 

her  head,  a  great  mass  of  red,  gold  hair  fell  over  his 
arm.  He  thrilled.  It  was  like  Mary's.  It  was  her 
mother.  He  could  not  lift  her.  She  must  not  be  left 
there.  He  flew  up  the  dock,  round  the  corner,  and 
groped  up  the  stairs.  He  scarcely  touched  the  door 
before  it  opened. 

"She's  on  the  dock;  I  can't  help  her."  The  boy 
turned  and  ran  back  to  the  woman,  well  knowing,  child 
as  he  was,  her  danger.  Two  figures  skulked  away  in 
the  darkness  at  the  approach  of  the  boy,  closely  followed 
by  a  man.  The  man  bent  over  the  woman,  but  his  face 
expressed  the  loathing  he  felt. 

"We'll  get  the  cart  at  the  end  of  the  dock  and  take 
her  home  before  the  cops  get  her,"  whispered  the  boy 
feverishly.  They  went  to  the  head  of  the  dock  and 
began  moving  one  of  the  light  carts.  A  voice  hailed 
them  in  a  tone  of  command.  A  blue-coated  figure  came 
out  of  the  darkness.  As  it  came  nearer  the  boy  whis- 
pered, "It's  Charlie;  it's  all  right." 

"It's  you,  John ;  I  didn't  know  yer.    What's  up  ?" 

"I  want  to  take  Mary  home." 

"My  God!  has  it  come  to  this?"  and  the  man  stood 
bareheaded  under  the  stars.  Far  more  tenderly  than  the 
husband,  he  raised  the  woman  and  put  her  in  the  cart. 
The  men  began  pulling,  dragging  her  toward  the  home 
she  made  desolate. 

"I  don't  want  the  child  to  know.  She  cried  herself 
to  sleep  to-night,"  said  the  father  as  they  picked  up  the 
unconscious  woman. 

Jack  sped  up  the  stairs.  The  lamp  was  burning.  He 
pulled  the  bedroom  door  to,  and  carried  the  lamp  to  the 


88  THE  STORY  OF 

hall.  The  men  came  quietly,  the  woman  never  stirred  as 
they  put  her  down  on  the  lounge,  her  beautiful  hair 
falling  over  her  face. 

"Jack  and  I  will  take  the  cart  back;  you  stay  here, 
John." 

The  husband  did  not  answer,  but  sat  in  a  chair  the 
picture  of  hopeless  misery. 

Without  a  word  Jack  and  the  policeman  hauled  the 
cart  back  to  its  place.  There  was  a  touch  of  light  on  the 
tops  of  the  tall  buildings  along  the  river ;  day  was  com- 
ing. The  roundsman  came  up.  "Yer  were  off  post, 
Charlie." 

"Yes,  Mary  CahilPs  been  gone  two  days,  she  wandered 
here  on  the  dock  and  I  helped  John  take  her  home." 

Neither  spoke  for  a  time.  Then  Jack  heard  the 
roundsman  say :  "It's  a  pity  she  didn't  break  her  neck." 

"Don't  say  that,  Tom.  There  was  a  time  when  either 
of  us  would  have  broken  the  jaw  of  any  man  who  said 
a  word  agin  her.  Yer  remember  that  time.  She  was 
always  easily  led,  and  yer  know  what  her  mother  was. 
She  was  the  prettiest  girl  in  the  ward ;  there's  not  a  head 
of  hair  like  hers  in  the  ward  to-day."  He  took  off  his 
hat.  "Yer  may  think  it  strange,  Tom,  but  I'll  tell  yer 
thrue,  I  don't  believe  she'd  come  to  that  if  I'd  got  her. 
Yer  know  she  was  easily  led.  John  would  never  dance ; 
yer  know  how  she  loved  it.  He  settled  down  at  once, 
and  she  liked  fun.  It  was  an  awful  sight,  Tom.  She 
was  like  the  dead,  and  her  hair  covered  her."  The  man 
shivered.  The  listener  put  his  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"If  it  wasn't  in  her,  Charlie,  it  wouldn't  come  out. 
If,  as  you  say,  she  is  easily  led,  John  and  her  child  would 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY  89 

lead  her.  Look  at  them !  Ye're  wrong.  No  man  could 
hold  her.  I'm  glad  you  got  her  home ;  but  Fm  glad  it's 
not  your  home  that  has  her  in  it."  The  roundsman 
turned  and  walked  down  the  street. 

Charlie  watched  the  light  touching  the  buildings  and 
silvering  them,  a  reflected  light  in  his  own  face. 

"Billy  is  wrong.  Mary  made  a  mistake;  it's  me  she 
wanted;  it  all  came  of  that  row  about  Kittie  Kerrigan, 
the  little  imp.  She  made  me  take  her  to  the  dance,  and 
Mary  got  mad  and  married  John  that  night.  Tom  is 
wrong.  I  could  have  saved  Mary;  she'd  never  done 
this."  The  eyes  that  rested  on  the  boy  were  full  of  love. 

"Jack,  if  yer  ever  love  a  girl,  and  I  think  yer  will, 
don't  let  any  black-haired  imp  take  yer  off  the  track 
once.  Some  girls  won't  stand  it." 

He  walked  slowly  away,  but  his  head  was  held  erect. 

"She  did  love  me.    It's  John's  fault ;  he's  too  stern." 

"Charlie's  muttering,"  said  the  gateman  at  the  ferry, 
as  Charlie  passed. 

A  boy  sat  watching  the  river.  A  new  page  had  been 
turned  in  his  book  of  knowledge,  and  what  was  written 
there  was  confusing. 


CHAPTEE  IV. 

COMING  INTO  MANHOOD. 

JACK  had  learned  many  things  since  Mrs.  Donohue's 
brother  had  taken  her  to  his  farm  up  in  Sullivan  County. 
She  had  clung  to  Jack  when  they  told  her  she  could  not 
keep  her  home;  he  had  told  her  he  could  work,  and 
they  could  get  along,  but  her  brother's  wife  had  set- 
tled everything,  and  Jack  had  watched  Mrs.  Donohue 
as  she  walked  feebly  to  the  cars  the  day  they  took  her 
away  leaving  him  a  waif  in  the  great  city  of  New  York. 

That  was  four  years  ago,  and  Jack  was  still  unmo- 
lested in  his  possession  of  the  streets.  Often,  as  Jack 
lay  at  night  on  the  familiar  dock  under  the  lee  of  the 
barrels  watching  the  stars,  he  thought  of  Mrs.  Donohue, 
and  was  so  glad  she  had  gone  to  that  place  called  coun- 
try. He  had  never  been  there,  but  he  understood  that  it 
had  advantages  especially  for  old  men,  and  women,  and 
kids.  Some  of  the  fellows  who  had  been  there  when 
they  were  kids  liked  it  and  would  go  back,  but  some  of 
the  fellows  declared  it  was  dead  slow;  there  wasn't  any- 
thing doing.  These  fellows  told  him  that  the  men  who 
took  you  expected  you  to  work  all  the  time.  You  got 
your  grub  and  a  place  to  sleep,  but  there  was  no  money 
in  it.  Another  thing,  you  had  to  go  to  church,  and 
some  fellows  were  awful  unlucky;  they  had  to  go  to 
Sunday-school,  which  was  worse  than  church ;  there  you 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY  91 

were  expected  to  learn  things.  The  people  who  run  the 
Sunday-schools  were  so  amazed  if  you  could  not  read. 
Every  fellow  in  the  country  knew  how  to  read,  and  it 
was  worse  than  lying  not  to  know  how.  The  country 
people  made  the  biggest  row  and  told  each  other  about 
you  and  pointed  you  out  to  other  boys. 

Having  plenty  to  eat  was  all  right,  and  a  good  bed 
was  all  right,  but  you  had  to  pay  for  it  in  work.  There 
was  nothing  doing.  At  night  it  was  like  a  cemetery. 
"No,  sir !  Yer  could  see  something  if  yer  staid  home, 
but  in  the  country  there  wasn't  anything  to  see/' 

Often  at  night,  as  Jack  lay  under  the  stars,  he  thought 
he  would  be  glad  to  stay  in  the  country  if  only  he  could 
see  Mrs.  Donohue.  He  knew  from  what  the  fellows  told 
him  it  was  the  best  place  for  her  if  she  could  not  have 
her  husband.  Jack  had  seen  Mrs.  Donohue  twice  after 
her  husband  died.  Yes,  the  country  was  best  for  her. 
There  was  another  reason.  Jack  could  go  hungry  him- 
self, but  what  would  he  do  if  he  had  Mrs.  Donohue  ?  He 
had  found  out  that  it  was  one  thing  to  want  work  and 
quite  another  to  get  it.  For  weeks,  yes,  months,  he  had 
gone  down  to  the  market  before  daylight  to  get  a  job. 
Sometimes  he  would  earn  fifty  cents,  sometimes  ten, 
and  there  were  days  when  he  earned  nothing.  What 
would  Mrs.  Donohue  do  in  these  times  ?  He  had  learned 
so  much  these  months  that  had  counted  years  to  his 
age  and  inches  to  his  height.  He  knew  which  hallway 
was  open  to  him  as  a  bedroom  when  it  was  too  cold  out- 
doors or  rained;  which  wagon  to  choose  before  the  win- 
ter drove  him  indoors.  He  had  reached  the  point  where 
his  coat  was  no  longer  buttoned  to  hide  the  absence  of  a 


92  THE   STORY   OF 

shirt.  He  washed  his  undershirt  in  the  river  in  sum- 
mer and  dried  it  on  the  barrels  at  night.  In  winter  Tie 
just  wore  it.  It  would  have  been  more  comfortable  to 
have  changed  it,  but  where,  and  in  what  would  he  keep 
one  shirt  while  he  wore  the  other  ?  Naturally  there  were 
a  few  weeks,  at  a  time  when  he  had  work  that  paid 
good  wages.  Then  he  boarded  with  Mrs.  Kerrigan,  or 
some  of  his  old  neighbors  who  had  known  him  always. 
He  shared  the  beds  of  the  family,  or  slept  on  the  floor 
as  the  case  might  be.  His  arrangements  did  not  include 
closet  room.  Yet  these  weeks  of  employment  usually 
meant  a  change  of  underclothing  and  a  shirt  or  two,  and 
two  or  three  times  it  had  meant  a  new  suit.  That  was 
when  he  got  work  in  the  mill  which  started  up  suddenly. 
When  the  mill  shut  down  he  lived,  so  to  speak,  on  his 
clothes.  The  price  they  brought  did  not  support  him 
for  long,  and  soon  life  was  reduced  to  its  simplest  terms 
so  far  as  his  wardrobe  was  concerned,  and  he  drifted 
back  to  whichever  bed  the  season  made  desirable — the 
dock,  a  wagon,  or  a  hallway. 

It  was  at  the  end  of  one  of  these  periods  when  Jack 
had  once  more  become  adjusted  to  one  meal  a  day,  and 
a  barrel  for  a  roof,  as  well  as  a  mattress,  that  in  the 
early  evening  he  sat  on  the  dock.  Some  of  the  gang 
had  gone  to  a  show  in  the  Bowery.  They  had  urged 
Jack  to  go,  and  had  offered  to  chip  in  and  take  him,  but 
Jack  refused  to  go.  He  sat  looking  at  the  river  and  the 
passing  craft,  waiting. 

"I'd  like  to  be  a  deck  hand  on  one  of  those  boats," 
was  his  mental  comment.  "It's  a  good,  steady  job,  and 
you  make  good  money.  I  wonder  how  yer  get  on?  I 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY  93 

don't  ketch  on  ter  anything  steady.  I  wonder  why? 
Mary  does.  She's  a  hustler."  The  color  deepened.  He 
was  moved  by  pride  and  by  shame.  Pride  at  Mary's 
success,  shame  at  his  own  failure.  "Johnny  Murphy 
looked  fine  when  they  started  this  evening,"  was  Jack's 
mental  comment.  "He  had  all  new  togs,  and  one  of 
them  new  hats."  Jack  moved  restlessly.  He  watched  the 
boats  and  listened  for  the  footsteps  on  the  street. 
"Johnny  is  cutting  the  gang,"  thought  Jack  without  bit- 
terness or  resentment  toward  Johnny  Murphy.  Down  in 
his  heart  Jack  knew  there  were  some  men  in  the  gang  he 
would  like  to  be  "shut  off,"  in  his  own  phraseology. 
'Some  of  'em  ain't  no  good ;  they're  bums,  and  I  know  it ; 
they  wouldn't  work  if  the  jobs  were  laying  round  so 
thick  you'd  fall  over  'em.  Johnny  never  was  that  kind. 
He  was  awful  smart  in  school,  as  smart  as  Mary.  When 
his  father  got  him  in  the  office  of  the  mill  he  worked 
hard;  now  see  where  he  is — at  the  top.  No  wonder 
Johnny  shook  the  gang.  He  earned  more  money  than 
all  the  gang  put  together.  Johnny  wanted  his  father 
to  move  out  of  the  neighborhood,  but  he  wouldn't;  his 
father  wanted  to  stay  near  his  work.  Jack  heard  Mr. 
Murphy  tell  Mr.  Cahill  so.  "Johnny's  a  good  boy  and 
pays  his  board  to  his  mother,  and  now  he's  hired  the 
room  in  the  garret  to  sleep  in."  Jack  started.  "At  the 
back?"  he  questioned. 

"Yes ;  yer  old  room  where  yer  mother  died,"  was  Mr. 
Murphy's  answer.  It  had  been  Jack's  dream  to  hire 
that  room,  but  he  never  had  the  money,  and  he  guessed 
he  never  would  have  it  now.  Ever  since  Jack  had 
heard  this  he  had  been  more  discouraged.  Johnny  Mur- 


94  THE   STORY   OF 

phy  seemed  to  get  and  to  hold  all  the  things  that  Jack 
most  prized,  and  he  might — he  wouldn't  blame  Mary. 
Johnny  would  do  well  by  her. 

Whenever  Jack  reached  this  point  he  had  to  get  up 
and  walk.  He  left  the  dock  and  crossed  the  site  of 
the  new  park  toward  the  baths.  Listening  as  he 
made  his  way  over  the  piles  of  bricks  and  plaster  to  a 
big  beam  kept  clean  by  constant  use,  and  sat  down;  he 
saw  a  group  of  young  men  and  women  walking  along, 
and  while  he  watched  he  heard  Mary  laugh.  He  made 
no  attempt  to  join  the  group;  he  never  did  when  his 
wardrobe  was  reduced  to  three  pieces  beside  his  hat  and 
shoes. 

There  was  no  question  about  it,  Jack  was  down  in  his 
luck.  He  had  tried  hard  all  day  for  work  and  hoped  to 
the  last  minute.  "There  ain't  no  use,"  he  put  his  hand 
in  his  pocket  and  took  out  ten  cents.  "I  try  just  as  hard 
as  any  of  the  fellers,  but  I  can't  catch  on.  .1  think  I 
could  had  a  job  to-day  if  I  had  the  rags.  I  looked  like 
a  bum,  and  people  what  don't  know  me  think  I  am  a 
bum.  Why  can't  I  get  something  steady  ?  The  mill  will 
be  shut  for  weeks,  the  engineer  told  me  to-day.  The 
chances  at  the  market  ain't  never  so  good  late  in  the 
season.  I  don't  want  to  just  sell  papers  enough  to  keep 
me  in  grub.  It  they'd  let  John  Cahill  keep  the  job  on 
the  dock  I'd  have  had  a  show,  but  he  don't  get  work 
himself  unless  they're  driven.  Everybody  I  know  would 
give  me  a  chance  if  they  didn't  need  all  the  chances  they 
see  for  themselves  or  their  own  people." 

It  was  dark  now  and  late.  The  sounds  of  the  street 
had  almost  stopped.  Fewer  and  fewer  boats  passed 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY  95 

either  way  on  the  river.    The  gang  had  come  back  long 
ago,  yet  Jack  stayed  there  hoping  and  fearing. 

A  slight  figure  turned  the  corner  nearest  the  river, 
Jack  leaned  forward.  It  might  be.  It  came  nearer, 
nearer,  and  when  at  the  place  where  the  bricks  and  rub- 
bish were  highest,  hiding  the  street,  it  turned  toward 
him.  Jack  forgot  everything.  Mary  was  coming.  With 
firm,  sure  footing  she  came  to  the  big  beam  on  which 
Jack  was  sitting.  He  sat  still  until  she  was  near,  and 
then  said  softly,  "I  hoped  yer  would  come.  I  heard  yer 
laugh  and  I  knowed  ye  were  there/'  Mary  did  not 
speak,  but  sat  down  on  the  beam  and,  clasping  her  hands 
over  her  knees,  looked  out  over  the  river.  Even  if 
Jack  had  not  heard  he  would  have  known  from  Mary's 
manner  what  was  the  trouble.  Language  had  never 
been  necessary  between  these  two.  They  understood  each 
other  without  words,  so  allied  had  been  their  experiences. 

Jack  moved  restlessly.  It  must  be  worse  than  he'd 
heard.  Mary  looked  at  him  and  saw  and  felt  the  sym- 
pathy that  Jack's  vocabulary,  as  poor  as  his  purse,  pre- 
vented him  from  expressing.  A  message  of  gratitude 
was  returned  as  eloquent  in  silent  language  that  ex- 
pressed the  deepest  feelings  of  which  either  were  con- 
scious. When  they  used  words  it  was  the  surface  things 
of  life  they  expressed  in  that  medium. 

"Did  yer  get  a  job  to-day?" 

"No,  'cept  two  hours  in  the  market,  loading  fish." 

"That's  better  than  nothin',  Jack." 

"I  could  have  got  somethin'  if  I  had  togs  like  Johnny 
Murphy."  Mary  looked  sharply  at  him.  "There  was  a 
man  looking  for  a  porter  in  a  big  place  where  there  was 


96  THE   STORY   OF 

a  lot  of  boxes.  I  could  have  lifted  any  of  ?em,  but  I 
didn't  have  the  togs  they  wanted  round." 

"I  wish  yer  could  keep  yer  things  when  yer  get  'em. 
Yer  look  fine."  Mary's  voice  was  wistful.  She  was 
too  direct  and  simple-hearted  to  affect  indifference.  She 
was  silent  for  a  time,  and  then  continued,  "I  do  wish 
yer  could  go  to-morrow,  Jack  ?  I  hoped  yer  got  enough 
to-day  to  get  yer  clothes  out  like  yer  did  for  the  party 
at  the  Kerrigan's." 

"Ye're  goin'?"  Jack  tried  not  to  show  his  disap- 
pointment. 

"Yes;  all  the  girls  are  going."  Mary  waited,  and 
then  added,  "Johnny  Murphy  asked  me  to  go  with  him, 
but  I  told  him  I  was  goin'  on  me  own  hook;  I  didn't 
want  to  be  tied  to  anybody." 

Jack's  face  was  radiant.  He  understood  perfectly 
what  Mary  meant,  and  for  the  moment  was  almost  as 
happy  as  if  he  were  going  to  the  picnic  given  to  raise 
money  for  the  gray  stone  church  that  was  the  symbol 
of  protection  to  the  people  by  the  river.  Mary  went 
there  every  Sunday  morning.  Jack  had  watched  her 
among  the  long  line  of  girls  in  white  dresses  and  veils 
the  day  of  her  first  communion.  Johnny  Murphy  was 
among  the  boys.  It  was  that  way  always.  Johnny 
Murphy  spoke  a  piece  in  school  on  graduation  day,  when 
Mary  sang.  He  was  in  the  class  when  she  went  to  her 
first  communion,  and  he  had  given  her  a  Christmas  pres- 
ent and  sent  her  a  valentine  ever  since  Jack  could  re- 
member. Jack  did  not  know  it,  but  his  whole  idea  of 
success  was  represented  in  Johnny  Murphy's  career.  He 
could  always  do  more  for  Mary  than  any  other  fellow 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY  97 

they  both  knew.  All  this  passed  through  his  mind 
quickly.  Yet  in  spite  of  it  Johnny  Murphy  could  not 
buy  the  right  to  Mary's  society  all  day  at  the  picnic. 
Jack's  boyish  face  was  alight;  he  looked  the  gratitude 
he  could  not  otherwise  express.  Perhaps  it  was  wise 
to  refrain. 

Mary  watched  the  river.  "Father  told  me  I  might 
as  well  buy  the  tickets.  He  had  work  all  last  week.  I 
got  two  tickets;  there  ain't  anybody  to  use  the  other." 

A  wave  of  crimson  passed  over  Jack's  face.  Mary  was 
unconscious  of  any  disturbance. 

"That's  what  I  thought,  maybe  you'd  get  yer  things 
out  and  then  yer  could  go." 

"I'd  want  to  get  a  ticket  fer  yer  and  take  you,  if  I 
went/'  said  Jack  desperately. 

"Well,  yer  couldn't  in  one  day,  Jack,  and  get  yer 
clothes.  What's  the  difference  which  of  us  gets  the 
tickets,  yer  can't  go."  Mary  was  silent.  Experience  had 
taught  her  to  accept  the  inevitable.  Jack  knew  she  was 
crying,  for  her  hand  was  passed  over  her  cheeks  now 
and  then.  Her  mother  must  be  worse  than  he  heard. 
She  had  got  in  a  fight  with  Harrigan's  barkeeper,  and  if 
it  hadn't  been  for  Charlie  she'd  been  run  in.  But  that 
was  three  days  ago.  She  ought  to  be  over  it  now. 

After  a  time  Mary  spoke  again. 

"When  I  got  home  from  work  to-day  I  couldn't  find 
me  dress  or  hat  I  was  goin'  to  wear  to-morrow.  I've 
been  earnin'  good  money  for  a  month,  and  father  told 
me  to  go  and  get  them.  Mother  couldn't  tell  me  what 
she  did  with  them.  When  me  father  came  home  I  was 
cryin',  and  he  went  down  to  Donovan's  and  made  Mrs. 


98  THE   STORY   OF 

Donovan  tell.  They  only  got  a  dollar  for  them.  Me 
father  pawned  his  best  coat  and  got  them  out  fer  me. 
I  didn't  want  to  go  to-morrow  because  I'll  lose  the  wages, 
and  father  hasn't  his  coat,  but  father  just  makes  me  go. 
I  don't  want  to  go  to-morrow.  I'll  think  of  father's 
coat  all  day,  and  I  wanted  you  to  go.  Yer  ain't  been  to 
a  thing.  I  wish  yer  could  get  work,  and  father  all  the 
time.  Father  gets  so  discouraged." 

Jack  did  not  speak;  it  was  worse  than  he  thought, 
much  worse. 

Mary's  voice  was  lower.  "Mr.  Cassidy  blames  me 
mother.  He  told  father  she  was  a  curse  to  the  block; 
there  wasn't  a  woman  on  the  block  as  bad.  Oh,  Jack, 
when  me  father  told  me  he  said  it  was  true,  and  he 
wished  she'd  break  her  neck !"  The  horror  of  it  was  in 
Mary's  voice.  After  a  long  time  the  silence  was  broken. 

"In  the  shop,"  she  continued,  "I  heard  Julia  Cassidy 
say  to  some  of  the  girls — she  did  it  on  purpose,  she 
knowed  I'd  hear  her,  'Her  mother  would  do  anything  for 
a  drink/  " 

Jack's  fist  doubled.  If  only  Julia  Cassidy  were  a 
man.  "That's  why  I  hate  girls,"  he  burst  out.  "If  a 
feller  said  such  a  thing  I  could  smash  his  face,  but  yer 
can't  do  nothin'  to  a  girl." 

"What  good  would  it  do?  It  wouldn't  make  mother 
stop.  She  used  to  be  sorry,  but  she  ain't  any  more ;  she 
don't  care."  Mary's  voice  and  figure  spoke  her  hope- 
lessness. 

"There's  father  now.  I  told  him  I'd  stay  around  here 
till  he  got  back.  He  went  to  the  primary.  He's  tryin' 
to  get  a  job  through  Kerrigan.  Father !"  Mary's  voice 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY  99 

reached  the  man  who  was  walking  and  peering  about; 
he  joined  them,  sitting  down  on  the  beam.  He  lighted 
his  pipe  as  though  to  spend  some  time  there. 

"Have  you  been  home?" 

Mr.  Cahill  nodded.  Mary  knew  that  her  mother  had 
reached  the  stage  where  the  sight  of  her  father  roused 
her  fiercest  anger;  they  must  wait  for  the  hour  when 
she  sank  into  a  sleep  that  seemed  akin  to  death.  There 
was  scarcely  anything  in  the  house  whole  now.  Her 
mother  must  be  kept  quiet.  But  little  was  said,  and  that 
by  Mary  and  Jack. 

When  midnight  quiet  had  settled  over  the  great  city 
and  the  waves  lapped  the  dock  in  musical  ripples,  the 
three  rose  and  walked  towards  the  Cahill's.  Jack  left 
Mary  and  her  father  and  walked  down  the  dock. 

"He  has  a  tough  time,"  was  Mr.  Cahill's  comment. 
"It's  a  wonder  he  keeps  straight."  Mary  looked  at  him 
in  surprise. 

"He  hates  it,"  she  ejaculated  almost  in  anger. 

"It's  a  good  thing  he  does.  If  I'd  been  made  fore- 
man I'd  found  work  for  him,  even  if  he  isn't  of  age." 
Mary  looked  her  gratitude.  "His  mother  was  a  fine 
woman;  I  knew  her  when  she  was  a  little  girl.  His 

father  was "  Mr.  Cahill  stopped,  a  crimson  wave 

sweeping  over  his  face.  For  the  first  time  Mary  remem- 
bered that  she  had  never  heard  of  Jack's  father.  -She 
looked  in  her  father's  face,  but  his  lips  were  closed 
tightly.  They  walked  on  without  speaking  again.  A 
great  wave  of  pity  for  the  companion  of  all  her  life 
rose  in  Mary's  heart. 


100  THE   STORY  OF 

That  was  last  night,  and  now  Jack  was  sitting  on  the 
dock.  Sounds  of  music  were  wafted  over  the  river,  a 
steamboat  towing  two  gayly  decorated  barges  came  in 
sight,  and  so  close  to  the  dock  that  Jack  could  see  the 
whirling  figures  on  the  deck.  Mary  was  there,  he  knew. 
The  lines  of  worry  and  anxiety  deepened  on  Jack's  face 
as  he  watched  the  barges  on  their  way  to  the  landing 
at  Broome  Street.  Gayly  and  more  gayly  the  music  of 
the  polka  floated  over  the  river,  and  faster  and  faster 
the  moving  figures  whirled.  Jack  leaned  forward  and 
listened,  with  an  expression  of  dread  on  his  face.  "She'll 
feel  awful  when  she  gets  home.  If  Charlie  hadn't  taken 
her  in  she'd  have  killed  Mrs.  Cassidy." 

Jack's  experiences  limited  the  range  of  his  imagina- 
tion, but  it  was  vividly  clear  when  he  thought  of  Mary's 
return  to-night.  She  would  hear  that  her  mother  had 
fought  Mrs.  Cassidy  on  the  corner,  and  been  taken  away 
in  the  patrol.  Jack  stretched  out  on  the  boards  in  lee 
of  the  stringpiece  of  the  dock,  his  head  pillowed  on  his 
arms.  If  only  Mr.  Donohue  had  lived,  Mary  and  he 
would  have  had  such  a  different  life.  He  would  have 
had  his  chance  with  other  fellows,  and  Mary  would 
have  had  Mrs.  Donohue.  Now  she  had  nobody  only  him 
and  her  father.  He  could  do  nothing,  and  her  father — 
well,  he  could  only  save  Mary  from  her  mother's  blows, 
and  not  always  that.  If  only  she  had  Mrs.  Donohue  to- 
night. Jack  knew  what  it  meant  to  Mary  to  have  her 
mother  taken  away  in  the  patrol.  The  last  time  Mary 
didn't  go  to  work  for  a  week;  she  just  stayed  home 
out  of  sight.  She  wouldn't  have  gone  then  only  her 
father  was  laid  off,  and  they  had  no  money.  Poor 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          101 

Mary!  after  her  day  of  pleasure,  to  come  home  to  this. 
Jack  buried  his  face  in  his  arms. 

The  months  came  and  went,  and  another  year  passed. 
Jack  was  still  drifting.  Working  when  he  could  get 
it,  saving  enough  to  get  a  new  suit  of  clothes  which 
were  put  on  at  once  because  the  old  were  worn  out,  or 
there  was  still  no  closet  to  hang  them  in.  Not  even  a 
peg.  For  a  few  months  Jack  did  own  the  exclusive  right 
to  three  nails.  He  slept  in  the  loft  of  a  stable  and 
cleaned  the  horses  for  the  man  who  owned  them  and  a 
truck.  In  addition  to  the  privilege  of  sleeping  in  the 
loft  he  received  two  dollars  per  week.  Except  for  Jack's 
crude  efforts  the  loft,  dark  and  unventilated,  had  not 
been  swept  in  the  memory  of  man.  The  hay  made  a 
most  comfortable  bed.  Here  was  a  place  where  extra 
garments  were  comparatively  safe.  A  hydrant  in  the 
yard  made  laundry  work  at  night  comparatively  easy  and 
baths  in  winter  possible.  For  a  period  Jack  felt  like  a 
householder.  His  natural  kindliness  of  heart  ruled  in 
his  treatment  of  the  horses ;  their  return  of  affection  was 
one  of  the  greatest  of  Jack's  delights  through  this  the 
most  prosperous  period  of  his  life. 

He  did  not  want  Johnny  Murphy  to  know  where  he 
was  living.  As  the  gang  were  not  given  to  asking  in- 
trusive questions  Jack  lived  his  life  unmolested  by 
callers.  Just  as  Jack  had  settled  down  with  a  sense  of 
stability,  the  march  of  improvement  turned  the  corner 
leading  to  the  stable  and  the  little  two-story  house  on 
the  front  of  the  same  lot  occupied  by  Italians,  who 
earned  their  living  and  a  good  bank  account  by  collect- 
ing, assorting,  and  selling  rags.  As  usually  happens. 


102  THE   STORY   OF 

those  who  directed  the  march  of  improvement  asked  no 
questions  as  to  the  sufferers  in  their  way.    They  halted 
in  the  middle  of  the  block  and  destruction  followed. 
Jack,  before  night,  saw  what  had  been  his  home  a  mass 
of  firewood  over  which  the  children  and  women  in  the 
neighborhood  fought.    The  suit  of  clothes  which  brought 
him  into  the  social  set  of  which  Johnny  Murphy  was  the 
leader,  was  hidden  in  one  of  the  inner  rows  of  barrels 
down  on  the  dock.    It  was  carefully  hidden  there  in  the 
night,  and  only  Mr.  Cahill  knew  where  it  was.    This  in- 
sured their  safety  by  day.     If  that  row  of  barrels  was 
disturbed  Mr.  Cahill  would  look  out  for  Jack's  belong- 
ings.    The  man  who  owned  the  truck  and  the  horses 
swore  his  landlord  sold  him  out.    He  had  paid  rent  for 
thirty  years  for  that  stable,  and  now  to  turn  him  out. 
His  opinion  of  the  owners  who  did  this  would  better  not 
be  written.     He  had  sympathizers  in  the  Italians,  who 
also  were  aggrieved  at  the  man  who  sold  the  property 
that  had   been   their  home   ever   since   they   landed. 
Owners  had  rights,  but  if  tenants  paid  rent  and  asked 
for  no  improvements  the  places  were  theirs.     This  was 
the  tenants'  view.    Both  tenants  had  contributed  to  the 
disease  and  death  statistics  by  the  nuisances  they  main- 
tained under  their  rental  privileges.    The  owners,  con- 
tributors to  all  the  charities  of  the  great  city,  never 
took  the  trouble  to  look  at  their  property ;  in  fact,  knew 
nothing  about  it.    A  dapper  and  stylish  young  man  who 
was  admired  by  the  managers  of  the  estate  for  his  busi- 
ness ability,  and  dreaded  by  the  people  living  on  this 
part  of  the  estate  because  of  his  mercilessness,  repre- 
sented the  owners  to  the  tenants.    It  was  the  sarcasm 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          103 

of  philanthropy,  that  the  people  living  in  these  old 
houses,  without  improvements,  paying  rent  for  bedrooms 
the  owners  could  remember  as  closets,  were  made  more 
comfortable  in  the  hospitals  to  which  they  were  driven 
by  their  unsanitary  surroundings,  by  the  expenditure  of 
the  income  their  rent  helped  to  swell.  There  was  a 
peculiar  fitness  in  their  being  sent  to  seaside  homes  with 
the  babies,  or  on  a  day's  excursion  by  the  expenditure 
of  the  rent  money  collected  in  spite  of  violations  of  the 
law.  To  those  who  knew  both  sides  it  was  a  bit  ag- 
gravating to  have  the  people  accept  this  in  so  humble 
and  gratified  a  spirit ;  it  was  so  clear  that  the  conditions 
under  which  they  were  forced  to  live  robbed  them  of 
physical  and  moral  resistance,  making  each  the  problem 
the  owners  of  the  property  were  trying  to  solve  en  masse. 
They  ignored  the  fractions,  and  rarely  thought  of  the 
units  of  the  problem.  One  human  being  was  such  a 
trifle  in  the  tenement-house  problem,  with  its  thousands. 

One  sometimes  doubted  the  sincerity  of  these  generous 
patrons  in  their  efforts  to  mitigate  the  evils  of  absentee 
landlords  in  the  great  city.  They  were  so  careful  to 
avoid  identity  often,  so  indifferent  as  to  who  were  the 
beneficiaries  of  their  so-called  generosity,  or  why  they 
needed  the  avenues  of  relief  their  money  helped  maintain. 
These  patrons  hied  themselves  to  seashore,  camp,  and 
mountain,  the  very  breezes  made  more  delightful  when 
they  remembered  the  size  of  their  checks  sent  to  organi- 
zations whose  business  it  was  to  adjust  the  relations  be- 
tween the  rich  and  the  poor. 

Jack  being  of  sound  body,  having  no  family  con- 


104  THE  STORY   OF 

nections,  was  merely  a  social  straw.    He  had  not  been 
tempted  by  these  outlays.    He  stood  gazing  at  the  ruins 
of  his  home  that  night  waiting  for  the  current  that 
would  put  him  under  shelter.    The  current  did  not  lead 
to  a  bay.    Jack  was  soon  stranded  on  a  rock.    First,  his 
new  vest,  then  his  coat,  and,  at  last,  his  trousers  were 
eaten  up,  and  Jack  felt  he  must  hustle  if  shelter  was  to 
be  found  before  snow  fell.     The  site  of  the  park  was 
still  his  favorite  resting-place.     The  city  fathers  had 
cleared  away  some  of  the  protecting  reefs  of  rubbish, 
and  the  wind  found  the  thin  places  in  Jack's  coat  more 
quickly.     The  old  neighbors  had  been  moving  away, 
months  ago ;  it  amounted  to  a  migration.    Johnny  Mur- 
phy, the  week  after  his  father  died,  had  moved  the 
family  to  Harlem;  they  had  a  bathroom  and  a  parlor. 
Johnny  was  paying  for  the  carpet  and  furniture  on  the 
installment  plan.    Kittie,  his  sister,  was  going  to  marry 
the  Dutchman  who  kept  the  grocery  near  them.     They 
were  at  the  top  of  Johnny's  luck.     The  Cassidys  had 
gone  to  South  Brooklyn.    Julia  married  Tommy  Burke, 
whose  father  was  a  stonemason  and  got  Tommy  in  as  an 
apprentice.     When  her  mother  died  Julia  moved  her 
father  and  the  younger  children  to  a  flat  near  her,  where 
she  could  keep  an  eye  on  them.     Lilly  Cassidy  was  a 
cash  girl  when  her  mother  died,  but  kept  house  for  the 
family  now,  just  the  same  "smart  little  thing,"  the  old 
neighbors  said.     Tommy  Burke's  brother,  Johnny,  and 
Ned  O'Keilly,  were  in  Sing  Sing.     Johnny  ought  to 
have  done  better  for  he  had  a  good  home,  but  poor  Ned ! 
Well,  everybody  knew  his  father  was  no  good,  and  his 
mother,  well — she  used  to  be  nice,  but  after  they  moved 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          105 

on  the  floor  with  Mrs.  Cahill  she  never  was  any  good. 
Jack's  mind  travelled  from  the  past  to  the  present. 

Mary  Cahill  was  working  overtime  whenever  she 
could.  Her  father  was  only  making  half  time,  and  not 
that  every  week.  Mary  missed  the  girls  who  had  moved 
away.  Perhaps  she  missed  Johnny  Murphy.  He  never 
came  back  after  they  moved.  A  cloud  always  followed 
this  thought  of  Jack's.  Everything  was  changed  in  the 
ward.  The  new  people  made  social  combinations  that 
ignored  the  few  old  residents,  who,  in  turn,  were  clannish 
and  did  not  welcome  the  newcomers.  "A  lot  of  hathen, 
not  spakin'  a  dacent  language  that  a  Christian  could 
understand,"  was  Mr.  Cahill's  verdict. 

It  was  night,  Mary  was  walking  along  toward  the 
docks  carrying  a  pail.  Jack  knew  her  walk.  She  was 
taking  a  supper  to  her  father  who  was  working  over- 
time. The  question  of  clothes  was  not  so  important 
now,  the  neighborhood  had  changed  so.  The  few  who 
were  left  of  the  old  residents  stayed  because  they  did 
not  have  money  enough  to  move  away.  The  wiping  out 
of  the  surface  distinctions  removed  the  few  barriers,  and 
now  each  was  a  law  unto  himself. 

Jack  shook  back  his  coat,  buttoned  it  over  his  under- 
shirt, and  joined  Mary.  He  did  not  offer  to  carry  the 
pail,  that  was  the  act  of  a  dude. 

"Hello !"  was  the  greeting  exchanged  as  they  met. 

"Yer  father  is  workin'  overtime?" 

"Yes ;  they  got  to  load  the  lighter  to-night.  You  got 
anything  ?" 

Jack  shook  his  head.  "Only  to  help  Mike  load  in  the 
mornings,  and  I  swept  Jacob's  walk  and  store  early." 


106  THE   STORY   OF 

"How  is  Mike?" 

"Worse ;  but  he  can't  give  up.  He's  got  the  cart  and 
the  route,  and  if  he  gives  up  he'll  lose  his  customers; 
he's  got  to  keep  on." 

"If  only  he  would  take  you  to  holler."  Mary  had 
expressed  Jack's  secret  wish,  which  he  would  not  voice, 
because  of  his  friendship  for  Mike  Brady,  the  owner  of 
the  cart,  the  horse,  and  the  route.  Jack  was  muscles 
for  Mike  in  the  morning,  accepting  only  the  minimum 
in  money  for  his  time,  and  accepting  this  with  reluctance, 
so  warm  was  his  feeling  and  sympathy  for  Mike.  Jack 
knew  as  well  as  Mike  did  what  was  the  matter,  but 
neither  of  them  ever  referred  to  Jack's  appearance  at  the 
market  to  help  load  the  cart  for  the  day's  business  as 
due  to  any  cause  but  Mike's  haste  to  start  early.  For 
weeks  now  Mike  had  been  losing  his  voice.  Jack  wanted 
to  go  on  the  cart  and  do  the  "hollering,"  but  if  he  offered 
Mike  might  be  discouraged;  he  did  not  seem  to  notice 
how  weak  his  voice  was. 

The  silence  of  Jack,  Mary  understood.  Mike  Brady 
and  Jack  had  been  friends  always.  Mary  knew  that 
when  Mike  Brady's  father  was  drunk  and  ugly  all  the 
children  big  enough  to  get  out  of  the  way  disappeared 
at  once  and  stayed  away  until  their  father  was  sober. 
Jack  never  told  her,  but  Mike  and  he  had  often  been 
hungry  together,  never  if  either  had  money.  Of  course 
Mike  had  to  look  out  for  his  brothers  and  sisters  lest 
they  should  be  taken  away  from  his  mother.  As  Mike 
grew  older  he  often  doubted  the  wisdom  of  trying  to 
keep  the  little  girls  home,  and  confided  his  doubts  to 
Jack.  But  his  mother  could  not  stand  separation  from 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          107 

her  children.  That  was  one  reason  Mike  stayed  home. 
He  would  have  run  away  long  ago  if  it  had  not  been  for 
his  mother.  Jack  knew  this,  and  more  than  shared  his 
little  to  help  keep  Mike  home.  The  little  girls  would 
grow  up  and  earn  good  money.  All  three  were  smart, 
most  as  smart  as  Mary  Cahill,  Jack  often  told  Mike. 
Jack  and  Mike  shared  the  same  wagon,  or  Jack  was  host 
in  some  hallway  where  Jack  and  the  housekeeper  were 
friends  whenever  Mike's  father  made  his  home  not  only 
undesirable  but  unsafe. 

In  the  period  of  Jack's  prosperity  when  his  home  was 
exclusive  in  the  loft  above  the  horses,  Jack  had  hidden 
Mike  from  his  father's  wrath  many  times,  Mike  having 
incurred  it  by  spending  some  money  for  a  coat  and  hat 
after  he  had  helped  keep  a  home  for  the  family  for 
months.  Mike's  father,  known  in  the  ward  for  his 
powerful  knuckles  and  untrammelled  tongue,  was  op- 
posed to  dudes,  and  vowed  by  all  the  powers  above  and 
below  that  he'd  kill  any  child  he  had  who  showed  symp- 
toms of  attaining  the  undesirable  distinction  of  owning 
two  coats  and  two  hats  at  the  same  time.  One  night 
when  Mike  had  reached  man's  estate  he  was  in  the 
loft  with  Jack;  he  was  deploring  his  weakness  in  not 
fighting  his  father.  "He  struck  me  mother,  Jack,  be- 
cause she'd  not  give  him  the  money  she  got  for  washing. 
I  ought  to  have  waited  in  the  hall  and  knocked  his  head 
off."  Mike's  father  had  always  had  the  lion's  share 
of  food  when  the  family  had  it,  and  Mike  had  suffered 
in  consequence.  One  would  imagine  what  the  result 
would  have  been  if  Mike  had  attempted  to  defend  his 
mother.  "I  would  have  punched  him  when  he  struck 


108  THE   STORY  OF 

mother,  but  I  thought  Billy  would  have  a  fit;  I  picked 
him  up  and  carried  him  to  Mary  Cahill ;  she  was  home 
from  work.  Mary  told  me  to  run  and  not  stay  and 
make  more  trouble."  He  was  silent  for  some  time,  his 
head  buried  in  the  hay.  He  turned  to  Jack.  "Jack,  me 
mother  ought  to  have  sent  him  up  when  he  lamed 
Billy." 

Jack  exclaimed. 

"Yes.  You  never  knowed.  He  throwed  Billy  over 
his  head  when  Billy  was  a  baby  and  his  hip  struck  the 
back  of  a  chair  when  he  fell.  He  wanted  money  that 
time.  He  was  a  fine  kid,  Billy  was,  till  that  happened ; 
now  he's  good  for  nothin'.  I  don't  mean  that;  I  mean 
he'll  never  walk  much,  or  be  strong.  I  think  sometimes 
mother  would  die  if  it  weren't  for  Billy.  She's  afraid 
he'd  have  to  get  to  a  Home.  If  she'd  shut  my  father  up 
then  he  might  have  been  scart.  Nobody  stops  him,  and 
he  just  goes  on.  I  wish  I'd  broken  his  head  to-night 
when  he  struck  me  mother,  the  drunken  bum!" 

Mike  threw  himself  over  on  his  face.  Jack  wished  he 
could  say  something,  but  he  couldn't.  They  lay  side 
by  side.  So  fearful  were  they  of  expressing  their  feel- 
ings that  they  did  not  even  touch  each  other's  hands 
though  one  heart  ached  for  some  expression  of  sympathy, 
and  the  other  longed  to  express  what  he  felt. 

When  the  movement  of  the  horses  wakened  Jack  he 
stole  softly  down  stairs.  When  they  were  ready  and  had 
been  driven  round  to  the  stevedore's  office  for  the 
owner,  Jack  began  his  investigations  as  to  the  where- 
abouts of  Mike's  father  and  his  condition,  and  when  the 
little  girls  were  to  report  to  Mike.  From  one  saloon  to 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          109 

another  went  Jack.  At  last  he  concluded  the  man  must 
be  home.  He  never  went  to  the  Cahill's  home,  for  he 
knew  Mary  did  not  want  him  to  come.  Her  mother  was 
too  uncertain  a  person  as  to  her  temper  and  condition 
for  her  daughter  to  risk  having  callers.  Besides,  Mrs. 
Cahill  hated  Jack.  She  knew  why  Mary  would  not 
marry  Johnny  Murphy.  "Ye're  wantin'  to  marry  that 
thing,"  she  would  say  with  scorn ;  "him  without  a  second 
shirt  to  his  back,  and  bummin'  around,  not  able  to  put  a 
roof  over  his  head  half  the  time.  It's  fine  pride  yer 
have  a  turnin'  yer  back  on  a  gentleman  for  the  loikes  of 
him."  These  were  the  mildest  of  Mrs.  Cahill's  declara- 
tions of  her  feelings  for  Jack. 

Jack  had  heard  of  her  disapproval  of  him,  and  for 
Mary's  sake  avoided  her  mother. 

There  was  unusual  stillness  in  the  house  this  morning, 
no  one  going  in  or  out.  At  last  there  was  a  step.  Jack 
drew  back  in  the  alley  out  of  sight.  It  was  Mary. 
To  his  quiet  "Hello,"  she  turned  a  white  face  with  dark 
rings  under  her  eyes,  black  with  horror. 

"Jack,  where's  Mike  ?  Do  yer  know  ?  He  brought 
Billy  into  me  and  I  took  him.  When  he  cried  himself 
to  sleep  I  put  him  on  two  chairs.  Mrs.  Brady  came  in 
and  told  me  his  father  had  gone.  He  wouldn't  be  back 
now  for  days,  and  she'd  take  Billy  upstairs;  he'd  sleep 
best  there.  Big  Mike  was  hidin'  in  the  upper  hall. 
When  she  went  back  he  was  in  the  bedroom  pullin'  the 
bed  to  pieces.  He  thought  she  had  her  money  there,  but 
it  was  in  her  bosom  inside  her  corsets.  I  guess  he 
thought  that,  for  he  made  a  rush  at  her,  throwin'  Billy 


110  THE   STORY   OF 

out  of  her  arms,  and,  oh,  Jack !  Billy  is  dyin',  I  think, 
and  he  wants  Mike.  Get  him." 

Jack  was  off  like  an  arrow.  He  went  up  to  the  loft. 
Mike  was  still  asleep.  "Mike,"  Jack  could  scarcely 
speak.  "Mike,"  he  shook  him.  "Yes,  mother."  "Come, 
Mike." 

Mike  sat  up  bewildered  by  the  darkness  and  strange- 
ness of  his  surroundings. 

"Billy!" 

Mike  was  on  his  feet  in  a  moment.    "What  is  it?" 

"Billy  is  hurted.    Go  home." 

"How  did  he  get  hurt  ?  I  left  him  with  Mary.  Jack, 
did  me  father "  Mike  did  not  finish  the  sentence. 

Jack  nodded;  he  understood. 

"Damn  him!  Why  didn't  I  kill  him  last  night?" 
Mike  was  down  the  stairs.  Jack  followed. 

"I  can't  do  nothin'.  I  better  try  to  get  at  something, 
perhaps  Mike  hasn't  any  money.  He  took  Mamie  Smith 
out  night  before  last." 

He  went  down  to  the  market,  and  before  noon  he  had 
earned  a  dollar.  The  dimes  and  nickels  he  took  to  his 
friend  Jacob,  exchanging  them  for  a  bill.  He  swept  a 
walk  for  a  cup  of  coffee  and  a  roll  to  keep  the  dollar 
unbroken. 

Mike  went  up  to  the  garret,  pushing  Mary  Cahill  out 
of  his  way  as  he  passed  her  in  the  hall. 

The  Bradys  used  Jack's  old  home  of  one  room  as  a 
bedroom.  The  light  from  the  window  shone  on  Billy's 
white  face.  He  raised  his  arms  to  Mike,  who  took  him 
and  did  what  he  had  done  for  hours  at  a  time,  day  after 
day,  and  night  after  night,  since  Billy  was  a  baby, 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          111 

walked  the  floor  with  him.  The  other  children  had 
come  back  from  the  various  neighbors  where  they  had 
hidden  from  their  father's  fury,  and  were  now  huddled 
in  the  corner.  Clara,  the  married  sister,  came  carrying 
her  baby,  her  face  white  and  drawn.  She  went  close 
to  her  mother  and  laid  her  baby  on  her  mother's  lap, 
who  took  it  mechanically,  rocking  back  and  forth,  her 
eyes  on  her  eldest  and  youngest. 

"Let  me  take  him,  Mike."  Mike  turned  impatiently, 
holding  Billy  closer  in  his  arms.  "Ask  mother."  It 
was  the  first  Mike  had  spoken. 

"He  made  a  grab  for  me  and  knocked  Billy  out  of 
me  arms.  He  struck  the  floor  hard  and  lay  still."  Her 
voice  was  quiet,  the  tears  falling  on  her  open  dress,  torn 
open  at  the  throat.  "He  got  the  money,  Mike ;  I  haven't 
a  cent,  and  the  rent  isn't  paid.  He  got  all  what  you 
gave  me,  all  I  had."  The  children  began  to  cry. 

"Hush !"    It  was  Mike  who  spoke. 

"Don't  worry,  mother,  I'll  get  money.  Have  yer  had 
a  doctor?" 

"Oh,  Mike,  he  said  he  could  do  nothin',"  and  the 
mother  raised  her  arm,  forgetting  the  child  in  her  lap. 
There  was  but  one  baby  in  the  world,  and  he  was  dying ; 
her  pretty,  gentle  baby.  Mike  put  his  little  brother  in 
his  mother's  arms,  his  own  tears  falling  fast.  Billy  was 
a  part  of  Mike's  life.  All  the  others  were  girls,  and 
Mike,  in  his  big  generous  way,  had  responded  to  Billy's 
adoring  love  for  his  big  brother.  After  Billy's  accident, 
the  cause  of  which  was  a  family  secret,  Mike's  devotion 
had  doubled.  Billy  moaned.  Mike  knelt  down  beside 
him.  One  of  the  little  girls  cried  out,  but  Mike's  up- 


112  THE  STORY  OF 

lifted  hand  quieted  her.  The  big  blue  eyes  opened,  first 
on  his  mother  and  then  slowly  turned  to  Mike.  A 
beautiful  smile  formed  around  his  mouth,  there  was  a 
flutter  of  the  breath  and  Billy  was  free. 

Mike  buried  his  head  in  his  mother's  dress.  Her 
hand  passed  over  the  bronze  brown  curls  her  tears  made 
damp.  When  Mike  had  quieted  she  whispered  to  him. 
He  stood  up  and  put  Billy  on  the  bed.  The  little  girls 
gathered  nearer,  looking  in  wonder  at  the  beautiful  boy, 
while  Clara,  looking  from  one  to  the  other,  waited  for 
the  cue. 

"It  was  awful  to  see  him  fall.  Yer  know,  children,  he 
was  feeble  on  his  feet  even  with  his  crutch."  The 
mother's  face  was  white  and  there  was  a  catch  in  her 
voice.  'Yer  know  he  couldn't  stand  for  long.  I  got 
the  doctor,  but  nothin'  could  be  done."  All  understood. 
Nobody  asked  why  Billy's  father  was  not  at  the  funeral. 

Jack  did  not  tell  of  a  huddled  figure  at  the  stable 
door  with  a  drawn  white  face.  He  found  it  there  when 
he  came  from  Billy's  wake  the  morning  before  the 
funeral.  He  knew  who  it  was  even  in  that  weird  light 
of  a  dying  morning  mist.  Jack  stopped. 

"Is  he  dead,  Jack?" 

Jack  nodded.  He  pitied  the  father  now  awake  to  the 
awful  truth.  The  man  crouched  lower.  Jack  waited. 

"His  mother,  Jack?" 

"She's  in  bed.    The  doctors  say  she  may  not  get  up." 

"My  God!"  The  man  rose  to  his  feet  and  leaned 
against  the  stable  door. 

"Mike,  yer  better  cut.  'Tain't  only  the  cops,  but  I 
think  Mike  would  make  it  hot  fer  yer  if  they  didn't.  I 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          113 

heard  Charlie  ask  him  to-day,  and  he  said  he  wanted  yer 
shut  up,  and  I  think  he'd  give  yer  over  if  he  knew  where 
yer  were." 

"Skip?  I  haven't  a  cent.  He's  a  fine  son  to  turn, 
informer." 

The  color  rose  in  Jack's  face  and  his  fingers  twitched. 

"Yer  see,  Mike  thinks  yer  ought  to  have  been  sent 
up  the  first  time  you  struck  Billy,  when  you  lamed  him." 
The  man  was  frightened. 

"He  blames  himself,  and  says  Billy  wouldn't  be  dead 
if  he'd  done  what  he  ought  to.  He  swears  ye'll  never 
drive  the  children  out  again.  Mike  won't  have  any  more 
foolin'.  They're  lookin'  fer  yer,  Mike,  and  the  cops." 

The  man  looked  searchingly  about,  and  then  drew 
back  farther  in  the  shadow  of  the  stable. 

"Jack,  I  can't  skip;  I  haven't  a  cent." 

"Well,  why  don't  yer  ship?  They  need  men  down 
on  the  docks.  There's  a  brig  going  to  West  Indy  at  the 
foot  of  Pike  Street.  Yer  better  go.  Yer  have  more  to 
fear  from  Mike  than  the  cops.  They  may  not  see  yer, 
but  Mike  will  if  ye're  in  sight.  Don't  yer  go  home  on  yer 
life." 

"Have  yer  ten  cents,  Jack  ?" 

"If  I  have  I'll  keep  it  for  yer  young  ones."  The 
scorn  of  Jack's  voice  as  well  as  his  words  penetrated. 
The  man  skulked  down  the  alley,  peered  carefully  about 
before  he  ventured  on  the  street,  darting  from  shadow 
to  shadow,  he  reached  South  Street,  where  he  crouched 
behind  the  trucks,  keeping  them  between  himself  and 
the  street;  the  freight  piled  along  the  river  front  was 
a  further  shield.  He  reached  the  dock  where  the  brig 


114  THE  STORY   OF 

lay,  and  in  terror  waited  for  some  sign  of  life  that  he 
might  venture  on  board.  The  captain  appeared  at  last, 
and  the  man  offered  to  sail  with  him.  This  hand  com- 
pleted the  crew,  and  in  a  short  time  the  sails  were  being 
unfurled,  and  a  snorting,  wheezing  tug  was  pulling  the 
brig  out  into  the  river.  Mike  Brady  crouched  down  to 
conceal  his  height  as  he  walked  up  the  gangplank  to 
the  deck.  If  the  captain  suspected  he  was  taking  a  man 
beyond  the  arm  of  justice  he  justified  his  act  on  the 
ground  of  his  need. 

A  policeman  stood  on  the  corner  gazing  idly  at  the 
sails  slowly  unfurling  and  the  fretting  tug  with  her  lines 
fast  to  the  brig  about  to  begin  her  journey. 

"Shure,  if  they're  as  'fraid  of  yeller  fever  as  I  am, 
it's  not  takin'  that  journey  they'd  be  doin',"  the  police- 
man muttered  watching  the  men  at  work  in  the  gray 
light.  He  thought  he  saw  a  man  walking  up  the  gang- 
plank whose  face  and  hat  he  knew.  The  light  was  dim, 
the  night  just  passing  from  the  river  and  the  shipping. 
He  looked  more  sharply,  and  as  the  man  straightened 
up  on  the  deck  the  policeman  muttered,  "I  knew  it. 
Well  it's  cheaper  to  let  him  go.  May  the  yeller  devils 
know  enough  to  grab  him  as  soon  as  he  lands.  Shure, 
he'd  swing,  and  that'd  be  a  disgrace  to  his  family;  it's 
bad  enough  as  it  is.  Besides  that,  Mamie'd  lie  to  clear 
him;  she'd  swear  she  did  it  herself  to  save  his  neck." 
He  watched  from  the  shadow  of  the  lamppost  and  awn- 
ing post  at  the  corner.  "No.  I'll  let  him  go.  Shure  I 
went  to  school  wid  him.  I  couldn't  give  him  up.  If 
'twas  any  other  mane  cur  I'd  do  it  in  a  minute.  But 
Mike  Brady!  Him  and  me  has  driven  the  cows  home 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          115 

together  too  often  for  me  to  hand  him  over  to  swing. 
He  deserves  it;  he  was  always  a  bully.  He  did  nothin' 
to  me  fer  I  was  as  big  as  him,  and  he  dasn't."  The 
policeman  watched  the  man  moving  around  on  the  deck. 
"It's  him,  shure  enough,  but  I  don't  see  him,"  and 
Charlie's  broad  back  disappeared  round  the  corner  of 
Pike  Street. 

That  was  a  year  ago.  Now  Mike,  young  Mike,  was 
sick,  and  didn't  know  it.  Jack  remembered  how  hungry 
he  went  for  days  to  get  his  clothes  out  of  pawn  to  stand 
up  with  Mike  when  he  married  Mamie  Smith.  Jack 
was  always  thrilled  with  pride  when  he  remembered  his 
social  altitude  on  that  occasion,  the  only  time  he  rode 
in  a  carriage  except  at  his  mother's  funeral.  Mary  sat 
opposite  him  dressed  in  white,  and  looked,  Jack  felt 
sure,  more  like  a  bride  than  Mamie  Smith,  though 
he  had  never  seen  a  bride  before. 

There  was  one  rooted  ambition  in  Jack's  heart.  He 
would  hire  a  carriage  to  take  Mary  to  the  church  when 
they  were  married.  She  should  have  a  veil  and  flowers. 
He  always  remembered  how  she  looked  at  first  com- 
munion. At  these  moments  Jack's  world  was  beautiful. 
The  details  of  this  land  of  ease  and  dignity  were  vague. 
He  saw  the  carriage,  Mary  in  white,  and  himself  in  a 
whole  new  suit,  even  shoes,  holding  the  door  of  the  car- 
riage to  give  orders  to  the  man  on  the  box.  He  could 
hear  the  door  slam.  This  usually  brought  Jack  back  to 
the  present,  which  found  him  in  an  ice  wagon,  if  in  the 
fall  of  the  year,  in  a  back  hallway  of  some  tenement  if 
winter,  or  on  the  dock  under  the  stars  with  a  convenient 
barrel  to  crawl  into  when,  if  toward  morning,  it  grew 


116  THE  STORY  OF 

cool,  too  cool  for  the  star-embroidered  sky  to  make  a 
comfortable  bed  covering.  Sometimes  the  looked-for 
moment  seemed  near.  This  was  when  Jack  had  regular 
employment,  was  the  possessor  of  more  clothes  than  he 
wore  at  one  time,  and  was  recognized  as  the  boarder,  or 
lodger  of  some  of  the  families  of  the  neighborhood.  In 
this  period  of  prosperity  the  moment  of  social  dis- 
tinction seemed  near,  and  Jack  was  supremely  happy. 

Mike  attained  the  position  of  capitalist  early  in  his 
married  life.  He  maintained  the  closest  friendship  with 
Jack  through  all  the  vicissitudes  of  his  life. 

Jack  was  slow  in  discovering  that  he  and  Mike  were 
spending  their  free  time  together  as  they  had  before 
Mike's  courting  period.  The  few  glimpses  he  had  of 
Mike's  home  revealed  a  different  Mamie  from  the  one 
he  had  known. 

"She's  bossy,  too  bossy,"  was  Jack's  mental  comment 
while  he  acknowledged  that  she  was  a  hustler.  "She 
pushes  Mike  right  along."  He  confided  this  to  Mary. 
"She  bought  the  horse  from  her  uncle  who  keeps  a 
livery  stable  in  Delancey  Street.  He's  a  plug,  but  good 
for  a  huckster's  cart.  She  borrowed  the  money  to  buy 
the  cart,  and  Mike  and  me  painted  it.  She's  smart,  but 
my,  she's  bossy!"  and  Jack  shook  his  head. 

"She  always  was.  None  of  the  girls  but  me  could 
stand  her,"  was  Mary's  reply  to  Jack's  comments. 

"But  they  was  married  nice,"  said  Jack  one  Sunday 
evening,  when  a  week's  prosperity  was  represented  in 
close  counting  as  to  sandwiches  and  cups  of  coffee  dur- 
ing the  week,  left  money  enough  to  buy  tickets  on  the 


AN   EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          117 

Eockaway  boat  and  chowder  for  two  before  Jack  and 
Mary  started  for  home  again. 

"Yes,  her  uncle  sent  the  carriage.  She  never  would 
have  let  Mike  pay  for  one." 

Now  Mike  was  sick.  He  ought  to  stay  home  at  least 
in  bad  weather.  Jack  tried  to  talk  to  Mary  about  Mike 
but  he  couldn't.  She  was  so  smart  she  must  see,  and 
yet  Jack  wanted  his  fears  contradicted. 

It  was  summer,  and  every  day  Mike  went  out  on  his 
route,  but  the  old  customers  did  not  watch  for  him ;  he 
could  not  sell  the  stuff  for  no  one  could  hear  him  call, 
though  his  face  was  purple  as  he  kept  crying  his  wares 
to  win  the  attention  of  new  customers.  One  Sunday 
night  in  November,  when  a  lot  of  cotton  bales  on  the 
dock  made  watching  necessary,  Jack  was  substituting 
for  the  regular  watchman  who  was  attending  a  wake. 
Mike  joined  Jack. 

"Jack,  do  yer  think  yer  could  go  wid  me  to-morrer, 
and  holler?  I  seem  to  have  a  cold  and  me  voice  don't 
sound.  Mamie  don't  want  me  to  have  any  one,  and  I 
won't  be  able  to  pay  much,  but  I  must  have  some  one. 
I  get  very  tired  by  night." 

Jack  waited,  more  because  he  knew  Mike  wanted  to 
say  something  more  than  because  of  any  hesitancy  as  to 
his  answer. 

"I  know  the  people.  Some  of  'em  I  trust,  and  some 
I  don't.  I  can  tell  the  prices  and  make  change.  Could 
yer  do  it  for  four  dollars  a  week?" 

"Shure.  Yer'll  be  all  right.  It's  only  talkin'  tires 
yer."  Jack  looked  into  Mike's  eyes.  They  told  each 
other  the  truth. 


118  THE   STORY   OF 

"I'll  stick  to  him  as  long  as  he  lives/'  was  Jack's  com- 
ment when  he  told  Mary  the  next  night.  A  soft  color 
rose  in  her  cheeks  and  a  glow  was  in  her  eyes  that  made 
them  black  as  she  looked  at  Jack.  It  was  a  happy  even- 
ing for  both. 

"Well,  Mike  says  he's  hired  yer  to  holler.  It's  queer 
yer  don't  get  nothin'  to  do,  just  hangin'  round.  A  boy'd 
do  as  well,  I  tell  Mike,  but  he  won't  listen  to  me.  Me 
workin'  me  fingers  off  and  him  wid  a  full-grown  man 
to  help,  and  he  doin'  nothin'  but  settin'  on  a  seat  makin' 
change.  It's  well  to  be  a  man,  I  tell  him." 

These  views  were  voiced  whenever  Jack  came  to  the 
little  rooms  at  the  top  of  the  tenement  on  Broome  Street. 
Move  she  would  not,  though  Mike  protested  that  it  was 
hard  for  him  to  mount  the  four  flights  of  stairs  from 
the  street. 

"Yer  must  be  made  of  money.  Here  yer  want  to  raise 
the  rent  when  ye've  hired  a  helper.  Where  would  we 
be  if  I  didn't  watch  the  pennies  ?" 

There  came  a  morning  when  Jack  sat  at  the  door  wait- 
ing for  Mike  to  go  to  market.  When  he  went  upstairs 
he  knew  Mike  would  never  go  out  on  the  cart  again. 

The  men  in  the  market  gave  Jack  the  usual  assort- 
ment; he  had  learned  a  good  deal  of  arithmetic  while 
helping  Mike. 

When  Mamie,  Mike's  wife,  became  Mike's  widow,  she 
decided  to  hire  Jack  to  run  the  route,  as  she  expressed  it. 

Each  morning  she  was  at  the  market  passing  in  and 
out  among  the  market  wagons;  sharp  and  shrewd,  she 
soon  became  a  better  buyer  than  Mike  had  ever  been. 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          119 

Then  a  little  store  was  hired.  What  could  not  be  sold 
on  the  route  was  sold  in  the  store,  though  Jack  was  evi- 
dently a  favorite  and  sold  more  than  Mike  ever  had. 
Jack  was  growing  more  alert  every  day.  He  was  paid 
a  dollar  a  day.  The  carriage,  Mary  in  the  white  dress, 
and  the  minister,  were  combinations  soon  to  be  effected, 
of  this  Jack  felt  sure,  redoubling  his  efforts  to  increase 
the  sales  and  his  own  wages,  for  Mamie  showed  the 
highest  appreciation  of  his  efforts.  She  appealed  to  him 
for  advice,  though  Jack  discovered  she  rarely  followed 
it.  She  deplored  her  blindness  in  not  discovering  his 
value  earlier.  Often,  when  he  was  sold  out  early,  she 
would  insist  on  his  having  supper  with  her.  Her  kind- 
ness and  consideration  led  Jack  to  think  he  had  been 
unjust  to  Mamie,  and  he  often  told  Mary  so.  Whenever 
he  did,  he  was  puzzled  by  the  expression  on  her  face. 

Mary  was  different  in  these  days.  Her  father  had 
been  sick,  and  she  had  to  stay  home  to  take  care  of  him. 
When  he  was  able  to  go  out  Mary  could  not  get  back 
in  her  old  place,  and  the  season  was  almost  over  and 
work  was  scarce.  Her  mother  was  worse  than  she  had 
ever  been.  Jack  heard  of  her  even  outside  of  the  ward. 
Mary  had  given  up  going  out  with  the  girls.  She  didn't 
tell  Jack  why,  but  he  knew  it  was  because  she  did  not 
have  the  "rags."  Jack  wanted  to  keep  his  money,  but 
so  many  of  his  friends  were  down  on  their  luck  that  it 
was  difficult,  and  some  weeks,  impossible.  Mary's 
father  was  not  able  to  work  much. 

Jack's  greatest  trouble  was  the  change  in  Mary;  she 
was  worried  about  her  father,  but  that  was  not  all.  Did 
she  miss  Johnny  Murphy  ?  His  mind  always  came  back 


120  THE  STORY  OF 

to  that  question,  and  the  impossibility  of  answering  it 
did  not  add  to  the  joy  of  Jack's  life. 

Mamie,  Mike's  widow,  puzzled  Jack.  She  was  "too 
sweet."  Jack  would  have  preferred  her  being  "too 
bossy."  She  was  making  money.  Jack  knew  the  route 
was  paying,  and  Mamie  had  added  groceries  to  vege- 
tables in  the  little  store  and  was  talking  about  making 
a  "specialty  of  tea,"  whatever  that  was.  "A  dude  of  a 
feller"  was  trying  to  get  her  to  do  this.  He  was  hang- 
ing around  the  store  a  good  deal  of  the  time,  but  Mamie 
always  was  busy  soon  after  Jack  came  in,  and  the  "dude" 
went  away.  Mamie  found  means  for  Jack's  coming  back 
evenings.  Jack  did  not  like  it.  He  was  uncomfortable. 
He  wanted  to  tell  Mary,  but  he  could  not  get  at  her. 
It  was  the  first  time  Jack  had  ever  been  paid  wages  regu- 
larly for  three  months  in  his  life,  but  he  never  was  so 
uneasy,  so  unhappy.  Mary  was  queer  these  days,  but 
Mamie  was  queerer. 

It  was  fall.  The  wagon  had  carried  only  potatoes, 
onions,  and  cabbages  for  weeks.  Jack  had  sold  out 
early  one  afternoon  and  drove  the  empty  cart  in  front  of 
the  store.  He  emptied  his  pockets  on  the  counter  of 
all  the  money  he  had  collected. 

"Ye've  had  a  good  day,"  was  Mamie's  comment,  with 
a  most  engaging  smile. 

"Yes.  I'll  put  the  horse  up  and  then  wash.  I'm 
goin'  to  the  theatre  to-night." 

A  frown  passed  over  the  widow's  face.  "Will  yer 
come  here  and  have  supper  ?" 

"Yes,  thank  yer,"  was  Jack's  reply.  That  invitation 
solved  a  problem.  If  he  did  not  have  to  buy  his  supper 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          121 

he  could  pay  for  two  stews  after  the  play.  Jack  was 
happy,  it  was  the  first  time  he  could  do  this  for  Mary. 
He  appeared  in  time  at  the  little  store.  The  widow  was 
in  her  best  dress.  They  sat  down  in  the  back  room  at 
the  table. 

"I'm  not  so  bad  off/'  said  the  widow.  Watching  Jack 
searchingly,  she  continued,  "Some  women  after  getting 
one  man  on  his  feet  and  building  up  a  business  wouldn't 
want  to  take  no  risks,  but  I  ain't  that  kind.  When  I 
likes  a  person,  I  likes  'em,  and  I'm  willin'  to  share 
me  good  luck." 

"By  Jove,  she  was  going  to  marry  the  tea  drummer," 
thought  Jack.  "That'll  be  a  good  hitch,"  was  his 
comment  almost  voiced.  Jack  was  puzzled  by  the  ex- 
pression of  Mamie's  face,  the  widow  was  looking  at  her 
hands  clasped  in  her  lap. 

"I'm  willin'  to  share  me  good  luck  wid  a  man  who 
knows  how  to  do  his  share.  Mike  was  a  good  man,  but 
where  would  he've  been  if  it  hadn't  been  for  me  ?"  She 
looked  up  at  Jack  who  was  waiting  anxiously.  He  was 
sure  she'd  keep  him,  he  made  the  cart  pay  for  her. 
He  wished  she  would  finish  what  she  was  going  to  say. 
Mary  and  he  would  have  to  walk  to  the  theatre;  he  did 
not  want  to  spend  money  for  carfare.  He  must  add  to 
his  pile  for  the  carriage,  the  minister,  and  some  flowers. 

"Yes,  the  right  one  could  have  the  business."  The 
widow  was  looking  out  through  the  store. 

"I'm  sorry  you  want  to  sell  out,  Mamie;  I  thought 
you  were  doing  so  well." 

The  cheeks  of  the  widow  were  flaming,  and  she  stood 
up  quite  straight. 


122  THE   STORY   OF 

"If  I  had  the  shekels,"  said  Jack  with  enthusiasm, 
"I'd  plunk  them  down.  There's  a  lot  of  good  money 
to  be  made  in  this  route.  I  wouldn't  be  afraid  to  buy 
yer  out  if  I  had  the  money,  yer  kin  bet  yer  life." 

"Perhaps  yer  might  have  it  widout  the  money."  The 
widow  was  looking  straight  at  him. 

Jack  looked  at  her  for  a  moment,  and  then  said 
quietly,  rising  to  his  feet,  "Mamie,  yer  better  get  Jimmie 
Murphy  to  drive  ter-morrow,  he  knows  the  route." 

"Ye're  a  fool,  and  always  was,"  almost  screamed  the 
widow.  "Yer  might  have  had  a  roof  over  yer  head,  and 
two  shirts  to  yer  back;  ye're  a  fool  chasin'  after  a  girl 
as  poor  as  yerself." 

Jack  never  turned  his  head  or  looked  back.  He  went 
out  into  the  street  with  one  thought,  "I've  lost  me  job." 
Mary  in  the  white  dress,  the  carriage,  and  the  minister 
were,  he  saw  clearly,  not  in  such  close  conjunction.  He 
shuddered  as  he  remembered  the  past,  and  now  winter 
was  coming.  He  did  not  tell  Mary  until  after  the  play, 
and  the  supper  of  two  stews. 


CHAPTEE  V. 

A  MAEEIAGE  OF  CONVENIENCE. 

IT  was  midnight.  Mary  was  waiting  for  her  father 
on  the  dock  with  Jack.  Johnny  Murphy  had  been  down 
several  times  during  the  two  months  just  passed;  she 
had  talked  with  him  at  the  door,  and  gone  several  times 
to  the  theatre  with  him,  sometimes  alone,  and  some- 
times with  several  of  their  friends.  That  evening  the 
group  of  friends  had  gone  to  hear  Billy  Murphy  sing  in 
one  of  the  Bowery  theatres.  Johnny  told  Mary  that 
now  all  the  boys  were  doing  for  themselves  and  the 
girls  were  married,  he  could  make  a  home  for  himself. 
He  wished  she  would  marry  him.  "You  know,  Mary, 
I've  liked  you  always.  I  like  you  better  than  any  of 
the  girls.  You've  had  a  hard  time,  and  I  want  to  take 
you  away  from  it  all.  I'm  making  good  money,  and  I'll 
make  more.  Not  one  of  the  gang  has  done  as  well  as 
me.  I  can  give  you  a  better  home  than  any  of  the 
girls  have.  We'll  shake  them  all,  and  begin  life  bet- 
ter/' 

He  was  so  straightforward  and  manly,  and  looked  so 
pleadingly  at  her  that  Mary  felt  sorry  for  him,  and 
wished  for  the  moment  that  her  answer  could  have  been 
different.  She  hung  her  head,  moving  her  hands  rest- 
lessly. 

"Can't  you  say  'yes/  Mary  ?    I've  known  you  all  your 


124  THE   STORY  OF 

life.  I'd  always  rather  be  with  you  than  any  one  else,  and 
I  always  meant  when  the  children  were  fixed  to  ask  you 
to  marry  me.  I  don't  know  whether  you  knew  it  or 
not,  sometimes  I  thought  you  did,  and  sometimes  I  felt 
sure  you  never  thought  of  me  that  way.  Don't  you  like 
me,  Mary  ?" 

Mary  trembled ;  the  world  seemed  to  be  slipping  from 
under  her  feet.  She  knew  what  she  wanted  to  say,  but 
she  could  not  say  it. 

"Don't  you  like  me,  Mary?'  he  pleaded  again. 

With  a  quick,  friendly  putting  out  of  both  hands,  her 
face  alight  with  the  friendship  and  sympathy  she  felt, 
Mary  said,  looking  in  the  eyes  of  the  man  she  had  always 
known,  always  trusted,  always  liked : 

"Johnny,  I  could  not  do  it.  I  like  yer;  I've  always 
liked  yer,  but  I  don't  want  to  marry  you.  Besides, 
Johnny,  I  won't  shake  me  father.  You  know  just  as  well 
as  I  do  what  me  mother  is.  She'll  never  be  any  better. 
I'm  all  me  father  has ;  I'll  never  go  far  away  from  him." 
She  raised  her  eyes  fully  to  him,  and  smiling  sweetly, 
said  again,  "Johnny,  I  like  you,  but  I  could  not  marry 
you." 

They  were  standing  at  the  door.  A  woman  with  a 
shawl  over  her  head  and  a  pail  in  her  hand  stood  just 
inside  the  alley  gate  listening.  She  sprang  out  and 
struck  the  girl  a  resounding  blow  on  the  side  of  the 
head. 

"Kun,  Johnny!"  gasped  Mary  as  she  turned  and  ran 
through  the  hall  and  up  the  stairs,  the  woman  in  close 
pursuit. 

"Father!" 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          125 

Mr.  Cahill  met  his  wife,  who  struggled  to  free  her- 
self from  his  grasp.  Her  rage  was  so  great  she  could  not 
speak.  Her  husband  at  last  forced  her  on  the  lounge 
and  held  her  there.  When  she  could  speak,  she  shouted, 
shaking  her  fist  at  Mary,  "Yer  won't  marry  him,  'cause 
you  can't  leave  your  father.  Yer  mother" —  the  remem- 
brance of  what  Mary  said  brought  back  her  rage,  and 
the  woman  could  not  articulate.  At  a  sign  from  her 
father  Mary  left  the  room  and  went  out  into  the  night. 

Where  should  she  go  ?  She  turned  the  corner  walking 
toward  the  river,  nodding  to  Charlie,  the  policeman,  as 
she  passed  him  on  the  corner. 

"She's  a  nice  girl,  but  not  near  so  takin'  as  her 
mother.  Shure  at  her  age  every  feller  in  the  ward  was 
after  her  mother;  she  has  hair  like  her  mother's,  but 
she's  quiet,  like  John;  a  nice  girl  but  not  like  her 
mother."  He  took  off  his  hat  and  then  said  reverently, 
"May  the  Virgin  save  her  from  making  the  same  mistake 
her  mother  made.  That  imp  of  a  Kittie  Kerrigan,  and 
me  not  maning  a  thing;  just  foolin'.  Bad  cess  to  her. 
I  never  dreamed  Mary  cared  so  much." 

The  slight,  girlish  figure  walked  to  the  end  of  the 
dock;  she  sat  down.  Jack  had  been  watching  for  the 
return  of  the  party  from  the  theatre.  When  he  saw 
Mary  coming  he  knew  her  mother  was  raging;  that 
Mary  was  not  safe  at  home. 

"I  saw  her  mother  going  down  the  alley;  I  bet  she's 
off  with  Mrs.  O'Beilly,"  thought  Jack  as  he  looked  at 
her. 

"Hello!" 

"Hello !"  responded  Mary.    "I'll  wait  for  me  father." 


126  THE  STORY  OF 

The  sounds  of  the  street,  gradually  softened  down, 
reached  them;  now  and  then  the  tinkling  of  a  car  bell 
broke  on  the  air  not  unmusically;  the  two  on  the  dock 
sat  silently.  Mary  dared  not  speak  lest  she  should  cry, 
and  Jack  dared  not  speak  lest  he  should  say  what  he 
thought  of  her  mother.  Something  must  be  done.  Was 
it  her  mother's  doing  that  made  Mary  act  so  queerly? 
Or  was  it  Johnny  Murphy?  He  had  been  down  a  lot 
lately;  and  he  had  seen  Mary  and  Johnny  together.  If 
Johnny  Murphy  didn't  act  on  the  square — Jack  drove 
that  out  of  his  mind.  Johnny  was  always  square. 

The  black  days  had  fallen  again.  Jack  was  walking 
the  streets  doing  odd  jobs  at  the  market.  This  time  he 
rebelled  as  never  before.  The  months  of  steady  em- 
ployment had  brought  the  day  for  which  Jack  had 
hoped  so  near,  now  he  dared  not  think  of  it.  He  still 
kept  his  room  hoping  that  work  would  come  each  day. 
If  only  he  could  get  work  before  he  had  to  sell  his 
clothes  again.  He  lived  on  less  each  day,  until  the 
hollows  in  his  cheeks  told  their  story  to  the  one  who 
watched  for  the  signs  of  Jack's  ebbing  capital. 

Johnny  Murphy  had  bought  the  gray  horse  and  the 
green  cart  for  his  brother.  Jack  had  just  heard  this ;  he 
felt  as  if  the  universe  had  combined  against  him.  When 
at  last  Mary  had  broken  the  silence  and  spoken  of  the 
theatre,  Jack  turned  to  her  for  sympathy.  He  told  of 
Johnny's  purchase.  "I  could  have  kept  all  the  people 
and  got  more,  if  I  had  the  route.  I  did  it  for  Mamie, 
and  I  could  do  it  for  myself,"  he  confided  to  Mary.  "If 
only  Mamie  would  have  let  me  have  them  on  time,  I 
could  have  paid  her  and  she  could  have  made  money  out 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          127 

of  it.  I  know  I  could  have  paid  for  'em."  His  elbows 
were  on  his  knees,  and  his  face  was  buried  in  his  hands. 
Jack  had  never  made  it  clear  to  Mary  why  he  left  the 
employ  of  Mamie.  Whatever  Mary  suspected,  she  kept 
her  own  counsel.  Jack  went  on  slowly  after  a  time. 

"Mary,  I  don't  get  as  much  at  the  market  as  I  used 
ter ;  some  of  the  men  don't  give  me  anything,  and  they 
look  queer  when  I  stand  'round." 

Mary  sat  erect.  "That's  Mamie.  She  was  always 
like  that.  If  she  got  mad  at  the  girls,  she  always  got 
'em  bounced.  Did  you  quarrel  with  her,  Jack?  What 
made  yer  leave  her  ?  Did  she  bounce  yer  ?" 

Jack  wriggled.  "No."  His  manner  showed  his  em- 
barrassment; he  knew  the  moment  had  come  when  he 
must  tell  Mary.  She  was  watching  him  intently.  After 
a  time  he  said  slowly : 

"She  wanted  to  have  me  take  her  with  the  cart  and 
horse.  I  didn't  want  'em  that  way." 

Jack  hung  his  head.  Mary's  cheeks  were  aflame.  Jack 
could  not  decide  whether  she  was  angry  or  not.  She 
was  looking  out  over  the  river  and  did  not  speak. 

"Come,  Mary,"  it  was  her  father's  voice,  "she's 
asleep." 

Mary  and  Jack  looked  at  each  other. 

"Good-night,"  said  Mary  softly,  putting  out  her  hand 
to  him  for  the  first  time  in  her  life.  "Good-night,"  al- 
most whispered  Jack.  He  went  in  behind  the  barrels, 
a  happy  light  in  his  eyes.  He  forgot  he  was  hungry 
though  he  had  eaten  nothing  since  early  morning,  and 
then  only  a  roll.  His  hand  went  down  into  his  trousers' 


128  THE  STORY   OF 

pocket,  and  a  satisfied  expression  spread  over  his  face. 
"No,  sir;  I  won't  break  it;  not  a  cent." 

Jack  went  to  sleep. 

The  days  duplicated  each  other ;  work  was  dull  every- 
where.    Fewer  vessels  arrived  and  departed,  and  the 
men  who   worked  on  the  docks   stood   about  in  dis- 
couraged groups.    Even  the  children  began  to  feel  the 
pressure  of  hard  times.    Mary's  work  was  dull,  and  had 
been  for  weeks,  until  the  shop  had  at  last  closed  down 
entirely.     When  she  had  visited  every  shop  she  knew, 
one  morning  a  week  later  she  started  out  for  new  fields. 
She  had  heard  of  several  shops  in  the  tenements  near, 
and  on  Houston  Street.     This  region  was  unknown  to 
Mary ;  she  had  never  been  in  it  before.    The  people,  the 
scenes,  were  to  her  as  to  a  stranger  from  another  city, 
who  for  the  first  time  visited  these  crowded  streets. 
Jack    knew    them,    and    had    often   told    her    of    the 
people  who  lived  on  those  streets.     She  had  walked 
block  after  block  through  streets  so  crowded  that  you 
had  to  wait  for  the  crowd  to  disperse  or  push  through 
the  people.    The  streets  about  her  own  home,  through 
which  she  walked  on  her  way  to  work,  were  paved  with 
cobble-stones,  here  the  new  civic  gospel  had  covered 
these  streets  with  asphalt,  making  delightful  playgrounds 
for  the  children.     She  held  her  breath  as  she  saw  the 
little  children  dodging  the  rapidly  moving  trucks  and 
carts,  some  of  them  mere  toddlers.     Mary  smiled  at 
their  daring.     The  element  of  danger  in  dodging  the 
rapidly  moving  trucks,  carts,  and  bicycles  made  life,  even 
to  the  toddlers,  more  enjoyable.     To  run  in  front  of  a 
truck,  just  escaping  the  horses,  so  near  that  the  truck- 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          129 

man  turned  white  with  fright  and  then  red  with  anger, 
while  he  launched  a  torrent  of  profanity  on  the  erring 
mite  of  humanity  on  the  curb,  was  bliss  for  the  mite. 
To  spurt  across  the  street  on  two  fat,  wabbly  legs,  whose 
extremities  are  covered  with  shoes  of  different  sizes, 
destitute  of  buttons,  in  front  of  a  bicyclist  scorching  on 
a  clear  space,  and  compel  him  to  fall  off  his  bicycle  to 
avoid  a  calamity,  this  is  joy  unspeakable.  If  the  man 
is  so  angry  as  to  be  speechless,  and  finds  relief  in  word- 
less threats,  delivered  with  fists,  while  the  precious  wheel 
is  being  examined,  so  much  more  pleasure  for  the 
owner  of  the  fat,  wabbly  legs.  All  this  is  fine,  if  un- 
conscious, training,  for  the  days  to  come,  when  dodging 
the  policeman  will  be  one  of  the  many  delightful  pleas- 
ures of  life. 

Could  any  ballroom  floor  surpass  this  smooth  surface 
when  the  genial  organ-grinder  pursues  his  more  or  less 
musical  way  between  the  rows  of  tall  tenements?  The 
small  person  on  the  third-floor  front  flattens  his  little 
snub  nose  against  the  pane  on  which  he  dries  his  tears, 
as  his  mouth  broadens  in  a  smile  at  the  sight  of  the 
dancing  group  on  the  street  below.  There  is  a  promise 
of  the  future  in  this  gay  scene  from  which  size  alone 
excludes  him. 

The  old  grandfather  on  the  floor  above,  standing  with 
the  youngest  of  seven  grandchildren  in  his  arms,  is 
moved  to  tears  and  smiles.  Tears  for  the  days,  long, 
long  ago,  when  he  and  Gretchen  were  the  leaders  in  the 
merrymaking  in  the  village,  seen  more  clearly  as  the 
idle  hours  increase  and  the  nearer  scenes  fade.  Smiles, 
for  there  is  little  Gretchen,  with  the  same  flaxen  pigtails 


130  THE  STORY  OF 

bobbing  and  swinging  as  she  tries  to  teach  a  dark-haired 
Kebecca  the  "two-step."  "So  like/'  murmurs  the  old 
man,  and  the  tears  and  smile  deepen. 

On  the  next  block  the  push-carts  hold  control.  The 
women  push,  crowd,  argue,  and  gossip,  condole  and 
congratulate,  as  do  other  women  of  another  life — sur- 
passing them  in  that  the  women  of  the  push-cart  region 
do  all  this  in  two  or  three  languages. 

Men  and  women  with  bundles  of  finished  and  un- 
finished coats  hurry  along  with  unseeing  eyes.  Minutes 
are  pennies,  and  pennies  their  only  known  measure  of 
values.  Here  and  there  a  gay,  rollicking  laugh  out- 
voices the  babel  of  tongues,  proving  that  the  spirit  of 
childhood  still  remains  in  spite  of  poverty  and  hard 
work,  or,  worse,  no  work.  The  danger  of  bankruptcy 
never  faces  the  man  who  sells  all  his  stock  each  day  at 
a  profit  that  pays  his  rent  and  buys  black  bread  and 
coffee.  The  sharp  sting  of  defeated  ambition  never 
enters  the  heart  of  the  woman  whose  social  set  uses  the 
same  assembly-room — the  street.  She  has  the  benefit 
of  her  neighbors'  experience  in  every  transaction.  It  is 
given  freely  as  she  examines  the  remnant  which  by 
scrimping  will  make  a  skirt.  The  waist  that  must  be 
worn  with  it  is  bright  blue,  the  remnant  is  purple,  but 
the  fortunate  buyer,  and  the  experienced,  sympathetic 
friend  who  has  not  had  a  new  skirt  in  five  years,  cannot 
bring  such  isolated  facts  together,  not  even  when  they 
cover  the  stately  form  of  Rebecca's  mother. 

Without  theories  or  laws,  without  leaders  or  followers, 
the  great  community  life,  whose  capital  is  common 
experiences  and  common  limitations,  develops.  No 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          131 

sociological  microscope  makes  these  community  mem- 
bers self-conscious.  Life  is  lived  in  careless  ease  and 
stoical  endurance. 

When  the  streets  were  still  more  crowded  because 
school  is  out,  and  more  women  and  children  were  at 
liberty,  Jack  and  Mary  turned  out  of  a  side  street 
and  joined  the  throng  on  this  East  Side  thoroughfare. 

Mary  wore  a  sailor  hat  trimmed  with  soiled  ribbon 
and  decorated  by  a  new  quill  of  the  latest  style,  above 
a  mass  of  reddish-brown  hair.  She  wore  a  light  jacket 
which  must  have  seen  harder  service  than  the  hat.  This 
was  a  size  too  small  for  the  girlish  figure,  and  slight 
protection  from  the  sharp  November  air.  Jack's  clothes 
were  thin  and  shabby,  his  hat  was  of  a  shape  worn  three 
seasons  back.  Both  hands  were  thrust  deep  down  in  his 
trousers'  pockets. 

"I  ain't  had  a  bite  since  yesterday  noon.  I've  walked 
until  I  can't  walk  no  longer."  The  husky  tones  made 
it  impossible  for  any  but  the  girl  to  understand  him  as 
he  passed  through  the  crowd.  This  tone  was  not  due 
to  emotion.  Jack  was  too  familiar  with  hunger  to  have 
his  voice  affected  by  the  present  experience.  Jack  had 
learned  to  talk  on  the  street.  He  early  learned  to  pitch 
his  voice,  even  when  crying,  above  the  rattle,  the  rumble, 
and  the  clanging  of  cars  and  carts.  His  voice-training 
was  carried  on  without  interruption  by  selling  papers 
during  the  rush  hours  at  the  ferry.  Assisting  and  act- 
ing as  street  huckster  had  not  added  to  its  musical 
quality.  Jack's  voice  was  invaluable  to  him,  for  it 
could  be  recognizpd  two  blocks  away. 

Mary   was   silent   a   moment,   and   then   remarked 


132  THE   STOEY  OF 

casually:  "I  ain't  had  no  breakfast  myself.  Work 
stopped  Saturday.  I  gave  her  me  envelope.  She  gave 
me  ten  cents  Saturday  night.  Sunday  she  wa'n't  bad, 
only  a  little  off.  She  began  hard  yesterday.  I  went 
out  to  look  for  somethin' ;  when  I  got  back  she  was  ugly. 
I  kept  still,  for  I  knew  she'd  soon  go  to  sleep,  and  I 
might  get  a  quarter  out  of  her  pocket.  She  hadn't  a 
cent,  I  knew,  but  what  I  gave  her.  I  was  foolish  to  stay 
in;  it  made  her  s'picious.  She  had  it  somewhere  in  the 
bedroom,  for  she  got  worse  and  worse.  At  last  she  sat 
down  and  dropped  off.  Now,  thinks  I,  I'll  get  a  quar- 
ter ;  'twill  keep  me  till  she  gets  over  this.  I  tried  to  get 
at  her  pocket  too  soon."  There  was  silence  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  then,  with  a  fierce  scowl  and  clenched  hands, 
Jack  asked,  "And  yer  limp  ?"  Mary  nodded. 

They  walked  a  block  before  either  spoke. 

"I  ain't  told  yer  the  shop  is  goin'  to  open  again  soon. 
The  boss  expects  a  big  order.  If  ye're  in  a  box  then," 
she  added  timidly,  "I  can  perhaps  let  ye  have  a  little." 
The  danger  signal  of  deep  red  flushed  into  Jack's  face. 
Mary  hurriedly  added,  "'Tain't  fer  keeps.  Yer  for- 
git,"  she  continued,  more  firmly,  "what  yer  paid  for 
medicine  fer  me  father.  If  ye're  agoin'  to  act  like  this, 
yer  needn't  sling  the  yaller  when  I'm  down."  A  deep 
blush  came  into  her  cheeks  and  an  unusual  tone  in  her 
voice  as  she  continued,  softly,  "I  guess  yer  think  I  don't 
know  yer  hocked  yer  coat  when  she  was  sick  and  I  had 
to  stay  home.  I  knowed  how  the  rent  was  paid  and  the 
landlord's  jaw  shet.  What's  good  for  the  gander  is 
good  for  the  goose,"  she  added,  with  a  timid  smile  and 
glance  into  the  scowling  face. 


AN  EAST-  SIDE  FAMILY          133 

The  scowl  deepened.  Mary  grew  restless  under  it, 
and  walked  more  quickly.  Jack  was  going  through  a 
severe  mental  struggle.  To  plan  his  own  affairs  more 
than  a  day  ahead  was  an  unusual  proceeding  for  Jack. 
To  come  to  a  decision  that  settled  his  and  Mary's  whole 
future  exhausted  his  vital  powers. 

His  shoulders  went  nearer  his  ears  as  his  hands  went 
deeper  into  his  pockets.  Three  or  four  times  he  at- 
tempted to  speak;  at  last  the  sentences  came  blunder- 
ingly :  "Mary,  let's  get  married.  We  can't  be  no  worse 
off  togedder  than  we  is  now.  Let's  get  married !" 

The  shock  deprived  Mary  of  the  power  of  walking. 
The  color  left  her  face,  and  she  trembled. 

"Come  on,  Mary.  There  won't  be  any  more  booze. 
I'll  pick  up  something,  I  ain't  afraid.  Come,"  he  added 
coaxingly,  as  he  almost  touched  her  arm. 

Jack's  heart  sank  as  Mary  drew  away  from  him.  Had 
he  been  mistaken  ?  Sometimes  he  thought  Mary  cared ; 
that  she  knew  he  was  hoping,  always  had  hoped  for  the 
time  they  would  be  together.  Now  she  was  more  help- 
less than  ever  before.  They  walked  on  unnoticed  by 
the  crowds.  They  could  not  have  been  more  alone  in 
the  depths  of  the  wood.  If  only  Mary  would  turn  her 
head  so  he  could  see  her  face. 

"Mary,"  he  drew  near  her  again,  "sometimes  I  think 
it  would  be  better  for  your  father  if  you  were  not  at 
home.  He  worries  all  the  time  when  he's  workin'  nights. 
Ye're  all  alone  if  she  comes  in  ugly,  and  he  can't  help 
yer.  Yer  ain't  doin'  yer  mother  any  good.  What's  the 
use  of  yer  stayin'  in  there?  We  might  as  well  be 
togedder."  How  he  was  pleading!  "I  want  yer,  Mary; 


134  THE   STORY   OF 

I  ain't  never  told  yer,  but  I've  always  wanted  yer.  I've 
kept  straight  'count  of  yer.  Nobody  ain't  never  seen  me 
with  any  other  girl,  I  only  wanted  you.  Come,  Mary, 
I  can't  stand  this.  I  can't  go  to  yer  house;  I  can't  be 
wid  yer,  and  I  want  yer,  Mary.  You  know  I  ain't  afraid 
to  work,  and  if  I  had  you  I'd  try  harder.  I  must  get 
a  job  steady  soon.  Yer  could  work  for  a  week  or  two 
till  I  catch  on.  Mary,  come.  Ye're  alone  nights  if  she 
conies  in  crazy,  and  there  ain't  any  one  there  to  save 
yer.  Yer  got  to  stay  'cause  ye're  a  girl.  The  worst 
might  happen.  Come !" 

Mary  shook  her  head. 

"Mary,  I  can't  keep  on  this  way.  I  can't  live  wid- 
out  yer,  I  can't."  Jack  stopped.  Her  hand  was  on 
his  arm;  she  leaned  so  he  felt  it.  The  emotion  had 
softened  Jack's  voice,  and  bending  his  head  he  pleaded, 
"Come,  dear,  come,"  Jack's  first  term  of  endearment. 
Mary  surrendered,  looking  up  into  the  only  face  in  all 
the  world  that  represented  friendship.  A  stronger  word 
she  never  used  even  mentally.  If  sometimes,  as  Jack 
remained  her  unalterable  "steady,"  the  thought  of  a 
future  when  they  might  be  married  came  to  her,  not 
even  then  did  she  use  the  word  love.  It  is  doubtful  if 
the  word  were  in  the  vocabulary  of  either.  There  was 
a  new  expression  in  Jack's  face  as  she  looked  at  him. 

"Where  in  God's  name  would  we  go?"  she  asked, 
breathlessly,  at  last.  "She'd  break  every  bone  in  me 
body  if  we  went  home.  There's  no  place  in  the  world 
for  us."  For  the  first  time  since  they  were  children, 
Jack  saw  Mary  cry. 

A  power  stirred  within  him  he  had  never  known. 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          135 

There,  in  the  glare  of  the  sun,  in  the  sight  of  the  hur- 
rying hundreds,  he  almost  took  her  in  his  arms.  With 
an  oath  registered  in  heaven,  but  unvoiced  by  Jack,  he 
vowed  to  stand  between  Mary  and  the  world.  He'd 
make  a  place.  A  contempt  for  the  strong  muscles  that 
had  been  his  pride  and  protection  since  babyhood  swept 
over  him.  Of  what  use  were  they  if  they  could  not  save 
Mary  from  crying  ? 

"Mary,"  he  whispered,  slipping  his  arm  through  hers, 
"Mary,  I  made  a  dollar  Saturday.  I  knew  she  was  on 
the  booze,  and  I  never  broke  it.  I  didn't  know " 

A  glorious  light  came  into  Mary's  brown  eyes.  "Oh, 
Jack,  yer  thought " 

"Yes,"  he  interrupted,  trembling  at  the  new  emotion 
that  shook  him — "yes,  I  thought  yer  might  need  it." 

"Oh,  Jack !"  was  all  he  heard,  but  the  weight  on  his 
arm  was  heavier.  Eden  opened  before  them.  They 
entered. 

Mary's  "Yes"  was  the  "I  do"  in  response  to  the  old, 
gray-haired  clergyman's  question.  Many  were  the  pru- 
dent misgivings  that  framed  themselves  in  the  old  man's 
mind  as  Jack,  tall  and  straight,  stood  before  him  and 
made  his  request. 

Jack's  "We  ain't  got  nobody  but  ourselves,  and  we 
want  to  be  togedder"  won  the  day. 

Jack  and  Mary  left  the  old,  dilapidated  church  man 
and  wife.  But  not  until  Jack  had  made  the  clergyman 
smile. 

"I  got  one  dollar,  mister.  I  want  that  to  go  house- 
keeping, for  we've  got  to  go  at  once.  But  I'll  pay  yer 
five  dollars,  blest  if  I  don't.  Take  my  hand  on  it.  It 


136  THE   STORY   OF 

may  be  I'll  have  to  pay  yer  in  installments.  Five  dollars 
is  a  lot  of  money,  but  I'll  pay  yer  as  sure  as  ye're  born." 

The  sun  had  gone  down  behind  the  tall  buildings  as 
Jack  and  Mary  came  into  the  street. 

Mary  was  trembling,  and  now  doubtful.  Jack  rose 
in  his  new  manhood.  He  must  drive  that  expression 
from  her  eyes.  It  was  worse  than  the  one  he  always  saw 
there  when  her  mother  was  drunk. 

Neither  spoke.  As  they  walked  toward  the  East 
River,  and  the  shadows  grew  darker,  Jack  took  his  wife's 
hand  and  passed  it  through  his  arm.  *  It  was  so  embar- 
rassing that  it  dropped  shyly  out  and  was  not  recovered. 

Mary's  doubts  disappeared;  she  asked  no  questions. 
Happily,  nay,  joyfully,  she  kept  step  with  Jack.  Lj/e 
was  glorious !  Her  own  home,  and  Jack's !  She  could 
not  see  for  the  love  that  sent  sparks  before  her  eyes. 
She  was  warmed  and  fed.  The  glance  of  her  eyes  which 
Jack  caught  made  his  pulse  tingle.  Protect  Mary! 
Let  any  one  dare  to  touch  her.  He  almost  longed  to 
show  her  what  he  would  do. 

"Mary,  stand  here  in  this  doorway.  This  Mike's  me 
fren'."  ^ 

He  referred  to  the  groceryman  who  kept  the  corner 
store.  Jack  nodded  familiarly  as  he  entered  the  store. 

"Well,  Yacob !     How  goes  it  ?" 

"So,  so,"  was  the  response,  as  the  man  leaned  leisurely 
on  the  counter. 

"Got  yer  room  rented?" 

"Naw,"  laconically. 

"Well,  I  want  it." 

The  man  stood  up  straight. 


AN  EAST -SIDE,  FAMILY          137 

"Yep.  No  foolin'.  I  can't  pay  the  whole  week's  rent, 
but  I'll  give  yer  half.  Yer  know  me." 

The  man  looked  at  him  searchingly.  There  was 
something  new  about  the  boy. 

"I'm  married,  Jacob.  I'm  sick  bumming  round.  It's 
me  steady,  yer  know.  Old  woman  kicked  her  last  night. 
"Couldn't  let  her  go  back." 

By  this  time  the  dollar  was  on  the  counter.  "Dat 
room  is  empty,"  at  last  responded  the  man. 

"Yep.  Ye'll  let  me  have  two  soap-boxes;  we  ain't 
proud,  if  we  is  beautfes.  We'll  git  along  all  right.  Yer 
know  me  steady.  Der  ain't  a  better  girl  in  de  Fourt' 
ward."  For  the  first  time  Jack's  voice  broke. 

Th.e  weak  Jacob  pushed  back  the  dollar,  saying,  "Dat's 
all  right ;  you  works  it  out,  see  ?  I  need  bundles  carried, 
and  dis  store  swept,  and  dat  leetle  devils  watched  what 
dake  mine  tings.  Dat's  all  right.  You  boxes  want? 
Your  steady,  where  is  she?" 

Jack  pointed  over  his  shoulder  toward  the  hall  door. 
Jacob  flew  around,  and  came  back  leading  the  blushing, 
tearful  Mary  into  the  light.  Jack  beamed. 

"He's  let%us  have  the  room.  I'll  work  it  out,"  an- 
nounced Jack,  joyfully. 

Mary  was  mystified,  and  looked  from  one  to  the 
other.  Jack  now  explained.  The  burden  of  life  was 
dropped  on  Jack's  shoulders.  Mary  gave  a  happy  laugh, 
and  took  a  step  nearer  to  him,  but  stepped  further  away 
at  once,  greatly  embarrassed.  The  smiling,  sympathetic 
groceryman  bustled  about  to  find  his  best  empty  soap- 
boxes. He  found  a  table  he  insisted  on  lending  them. 
To  show  his  friendship  toward  the  new  home  he  would 


138  THE  STORY  OF 

carry  it  upstairs,  while  Jack  followed  with  the  boxes, 
and  Mary  protected  the  store. 

In  five  minutes  Jack  and  Mary  were  sitting  on  the 
boxes  in  the  dusky  room.  Jack  looked  about  with  a 
proud  air  of  ownership.  When  docks,  covered  carts,  and 
open  hallways  have  been  one's  only  home  for  years,  a 
hall  bedroom,  furnished  with  a  table  and  two  soap- 
boxes, on  one  of  which  sits  the  wife  you  love,  becomes 
palatial.  As  they  sit  in  the  dusky  room,  the  love-light 
shining  in  their  faces,  although  it  is  so  dark  they  cannot 
see  each  other,  there  is  a  knock  at  the  door  and  a  scurry- 
ing through  the  hall.  Jack  opened  the  door  to  find  a 
number  of  parcels.  He  gathered  them  up  and  put  them 
on  the  table.  A  bottle  and  a  candle  were  on  top.  Jack 
lighted  the  candle  and  put  it  in  the  bottle ;  and  when  he 
opened  the  bundles  of  bread  and  cheese  and  butter,  he 
looked  at  them  for  a  moment  speechless.  His  honest 
blue  eyes  filled  with  tears.  Mary  rose  and  stole  softly 
around  the  table,  slipping  her  hand  through  his  arm 
and  leaning  her. cheek  against  his  sleeve.  Jack  looked 
down  at  the  brown  head,  and,  putting  his  head  down  on 
it,  he  murmured,  "The  duffer !"  That  was  Jack's  "God 
bless  him!" 


CHAPTEE  VI. 

LANDED  PROPRIETORS. 

JACK  held  his  head  high  as  he  faced  the  world  with 
Mary  beside  him  the  morning  after  their  unexpected 
wedding.  As  he  walked,  he  kept  his  hand  closed  on  the 
key  in  his  pocket.  It  was  a  great  possession — the 
visible  expression  of  his  claim  to  responsible  manhood. 
The  air  was  crisp,  the  wind  from  the  river  piercing; 
the  two  shivered  as  they  walked  toward  the  Bowery. 
Jack  had  two  cents  in  his  pocket.  When  they  reached 
the  first  news-stand,  one  of  these  paid  for  a  paper  that 
appealed  to  Mary  because  it  made  a  specialty  of  want 
advertisements. 

They  sat  down  side  by  side  in  the  first  doorway  that 
offered  protection  from  the  wind.  As  Mary  bent  eagerly 
over  the  columns  of  the  paper,  Jack's  face  became  over- 
shadowed. Mary  turned  familiarly  to  the  columns 
headed  "Female  Wants,"  her  finger  slipping  from  line 
to  line.  There  were  so  many  possibilities  open  to  Mary 
— neckties,  straw-sewing,  skirt-bands,  machine  hands. 
Her  finger  passed  to  the  last  line  of  the  last  want  and 
then  began  at  the  top  again,  this  time  to  blaze  a  way 
through  the  bewildering  forest.  Versatile  as  was  Mary's 
equipment  for  wage-earning,  it  was  not  a  good  morning 
for  her.  Feather-workers  were  in  greatest  demand, 
which  made  her  resolve  to  learn  feather-making.  Mary 


140  THE   STORY   OF 

was  so  intent  that  for  the  time  Jack  was  forgotten,  and 
she  did  not  see  the  shadows  deepen  as  he  watched  her. 
"There's  some  tie  hands  wanted  on  Broadway/'  she  said 
at  last,  deftly"  tearing  out  a  badly  printed  two  lines  and 
a  half  from  the  want  column;  "and  a  place  on  Canal 
Street  wants  waist  hands."  Here  three  lines  were 
cleverly  cut  out  with  a  pin.  "And  there'll  be  a  lot  of 
signs  out,"  she  continued ;  "it's  early,"  giving  an  intelli- 
gent look  at  the  sun  shining  only  on  the  top  of  the 
tallest  tenements.  She  rose  with  a  movement  full  of 
purpose,  handing  Jack  the  paper.  A  soft  blush  stole 
into  her  cheeks  as  she  said  timidly,  "I  don't  know  what 
time  I'll  get  back."  Jack  drew  his  hand  from  his  pocket 
and  handed  her  the  big  key.  "Here,  take  it.  Yer 
mustn't  stand  in  the  door.  Yer  may  get  home  first." 
Their  eyes  met  in  a  caress  that  warmed  and  fed  and 
thrilled  them.  They  parted  without  a  word. 

Jack  stood  still  watching  Mary  until  she  turned  the 
corner.  He  sat  down  holding  the  crumpled  paper  be- 
tween his  knees.  There  was  something  wrong  in  the 
universe.  Jack,  from  the  time  he  had  thrashed  the 
boy  who  took  his  candy  ball,  in  the  days  before  a  differ- 
ence in  outer  garments  declared  his  sex,  to  the  present, 
had  been  master  of  every  situation  he  faced.  Now  a 
woman,  yes,  a  woman,  had  revealed  to  Jack  that  there 
were  situations  that  muscle  could  not  conquer.  He  care- 
fully smoothed  out  the  rumpled  paper,  and  gazed  long 
and  earnestly  at  the  hieroglyphics  that  covered  it.  "Dere 
ain't  no  use;  she's  smarter  dan  I  be."  The  world  was 
very  dark.  Jack  experienced  his  Waterloo.  His  atti- 
tude of  dejection  was  so  marked,  even  in  that  region 


AN   EAST -SIDE  FAMILY  141 

where  buoyancy  is  not  the  predominant  trait  of  the 
people  after  they  are  fourteen  years  old,  that  the  passers- 
by  noted  a  "feller  down  on  his  luck." 

But  Jack  recovered  himself  after  a  time.  He  could 
not  have  explained  his  line  of  reasoning.  His  deter- 
mination was  to  learn  to  read,  and  to  get  a  steady  job. 
"Women  must  stay  at  home  after  they're  spliced/'  was 
his  conclusion.  The  face  the  world  saw  under  the  ragged 
cap  was  alight  with  a  purpose  that  made  Jack  older. 
The  man  was  born  that  morning  when  Jack  started  out 
to  find  work  that  would  support  two. 

He  went  to  his  usual  haunts.  He  had  missed  a 
chance  with  a  huckster  he  knew ;  he  was  late.  The  men 
in  the  market  who  needed  extra  help  were  supplied.  He 
raged  inwardly  at  the  time  he  had  lost  thinking;  he 
called  it  "loafing."  He  went  from  one  place  to  another 
offering  his  services  without  results.  The  day  was 
growing  to  its  middle  life  when  he  got  a  job  on  a  coal 
and  wood  cart.  The  owner  had  hurt  his  foot  and  could 
not  get  up  and  down  to  wait  on  his  customers.  "Sorry 
the  cove  has  wrung  his  hoof/'  muttered  Jack,  true  to 
his  nature. 

The  peddler  kept  a  watch  on  his  helper,  and  grew 
less  and  less  enthusiastic  as  he  saw  the  exactness  in 
weights  and  measures — a  trifle  he  neglected.  In  spite 
of  this  unbusiness-like  trait  of  his  helper,  his  stock  was 
disappearing  with  unusual  rapidity,  while  his  pockets 
held  unusual  weights  for  the  hour  of  the  day.  The 
harsh,  familiar  voice  brought  heads  out  of  windows 
where  the  capitalist  had  never  seen  them.  The  man 
watched  Jack;  his  method  was  a  revelation.  The  pro- 


142  THE   STORY   OF 

prietor  discovered  there  was  more  than  one  way  of  tend- 
ing strictly  to  business.  Jack  would  hand  the  small 
child  clinging  to  its  mother's  skirts  a  tiny  block  of  wood, 
with  the  command  to  build  a  house.  He  commented  on 
the 'child  or  the  weather,  or  complimented  the  mother, 
which  usually  brought  out  the  laughing  "Go  'long  wid 
yer,"  followed  by  the  question,  "Will  yer  be  through  here 
to-morry  ?"  which  was  answered  by :  "Shure,  if  ye'll  give 
me  a  chance  to  wait  on  yer/'  Jack  parried  jokingly 
demands  for  a  handful  more  of  coal  or  a  few  more  sticks 
of  wood  to  the  measure.  Yes,  there  was  more  than  one 
way  of  tending  strictly  to  "biz."  At  four  o'clock  the 
cart  was  empty.  With  fifty  cents  in  his  pocket,  and 
engaged  for  a  week  at  a  dollar  a  day,  Jack,  the  richest 
man  in  New  York,  went  home  to  his  palace. 

How  quickly  it  tumbled  about  him  in  very  ashes  when 
he  found  Mary,  white  and  still,  sitting  on  the  soap-box ! 
Had  Jack  ever  seen  it  done,  he  would  doubtless  have 
taken  Mary  in  his  arms,  the  rush  of  tenderness  and  the 
sense  of  protecting  power  were  so  strong  within  him. 
But  the  expression  of  our  love  is  largely  imitative.  He 
took  Mary's  hand  in  his  awkwardly,  and  asked  what  was 
the  matter. 

"Jack,  I  am  hungry,"  she  whispered,  conscious  of  a 
sense  of  shame  and  dependence  she  had  never  known 
before.  With  a  start,  Jack  dropped  her  hand.  Break- 
fast had  been  the  remnant  of  the  loaf  given  for  the 
wedding  supper.  Jack  in  a  minute  was  in  the  store 
below. 

"Got  luck?"  was  the  query  of  the  sympathetic  Ger- 
man. "Yes,"  was  the  brief  response,  as  Jack  bought 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          143 

bread,  butter,  and  cheese.  He  -would  have  bought  milk, 
but  as  yet  to  Jack  milk  was  "grub  fer  kids."  When 
Jack  took  the  change  for  the  fifty  cents  he  offered  in 
payment,  he  looked  at  the  groceryman  with  flushed 
cheeks.  "Don't  look  fair  to  take  it,"  he  said,  "but  she's" 
— jerking  his  head  upward — "she's  hungry;  we  got  ter 
have  grub.  I'll  pay  yer,  sure.  I  got  a  job  for  a  week 
at  a  dollar  a  day.  I'll  pay  yer  Saturday." 

"Dot  is  all  right;  you  go  to  her.  I  trus'  you,"  and 
a  bland  smile  spread  over  the  round  Saxon  face — a 
smile  that  would  have  told  Jack  a  story  if  he  had  been 
less  worried  about  Mary.  Supper  was  soon  ready;  it 
was  a  mere  matter  of  uncovering  the  food.  The  very 
presence  of  food  stimulated  both,  and  soon  in  careless, 
happy  ease  the  experiences  of  the  day  were  exchanged. 

"I  must  get  ter  start  earlier  to-morrow.  The  tie  place 
was  jammed  when  I  got  there.  The  waist  place  ?  The 
policeman  was  at  the  door  to  keep  any  more  from  going 
up.  I  tell  yer  if  yer  want  work  now  yer  got  ter  get  a 
hustle  on  yer,"  was  the  conclusion  of  Mary's  experi- 
ence. 

"JSTo,  s'r  'ee.  I'm  the  hustler,  Mary.  I'm  the  one  to 
hustle,"  Jack  added  quickly. 

"Jack,  we  got  ter  have  things — chairs,  a  bed,  dishes, 
and  things.  We  don't  want  to  hide.  We  want  folks 
ter  know  we're  married  and  housekeeping.  We  got  ter 
have  clothes,  both  on  us.  I  can  earn  good  money,"  Mary 
pleaded.  "When  de  old  boss  gets  started,  he's  goin'  ter 
give  me  first  show,  he  says.  Oh,  Jack,  I  got  ter  work 
until  we  get  things.  Maybe  we  can  have  two  rooms," 


144  THE   STORY   OF 

she  added,  exultingly,  her  eyes  shining  with  hope,  the 
heaven  attainable  daily  to  the  poor. 

"Yer  Dutch  scoundrel!  A-hidin'  of  me  daughter, 
and  her  hem'  ruined.  Let  me  get  me  hands  on  that 
red-headed  foghorn  and  I'll  spile  the  beauty  of  him.  If 
he  ever  had  a  mother,  shure  she  wouldn't  know  him 
when  I  get  through  wid  'im.  Oh-h,  to  think  o'  me,  a 
hard-workin'  woman  as  was  always  respectable,  bein' 
disgraced  by  that  hard-hearted  girl,  who  always  be- 
grudged me  the  sup  that  kept  the  heart  within  me." 

Mary  stood  white  and  trembling.  "Jack,  she'll  kill 
me,"  she  whispered.  Jack,  standing  close  beside  her  with 
blazing  eyes,  answered :  "She's  lammed  yer  f er  der  las' 
time.  Yer  got  me  now."  He  put  his  arm  around  Mary, 
waiting  for  the  door  to  open.  The  voice  was  higher 
and  came  nearer.  Mary's  mother  was  coming  upstairs. 

"Open  the  door,  yer  sneakin'  thief !  Yer  took  her  to 
support  yer,  yer  lazy,  howlin'  truckster's  trailer,  yer." 
There  was  a  bang,  a  struggle,  and  a  deep  bass  voice 
saying,  "Phawt  for  you  break  mine  door  in  ?  I  get  you 
'rested,  you  shust  step  in  vonct." 

"Git  out,  yer  Dutch  noodle.  I  want  me  daughter," 
wailed  the  voice,  growing  louder  and  thicker. 

"Jack,  she's  awful.  She  never  goes  on  like  that  'cept 
when  she's  fightin'  full.  Oh,  Jack,"  and  Mary  threw 
her  arms  around  his  neck. 

Jack's  instincts  guided  him.  He  pushed  the  box  in 
the  corner  by  the  window  with  his  foot.  He  took  Mary's 
arms  gently  from  his  neck  and  put  her  down  on  it. 
"Keep  still,  Mary,"  was  his  injunction  as  he  turned 
toward  the  door. 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          145 

"Oh,  Jack,  don't  hit  'er,"  gasped  Mary,  half  rising. 

"Hit  a  woman  ?"  The  scorn  in  Jack's  face  did  more 
to  quiet  Mary  than  his  tenderness,  the  expression  of 
which  was  new  to  both  of  them. 

"Let  me  git  at  'er.  I'll  break  the  head  of  her.  The 
villain !  a-robbin'  me  of  me  child,  and  me  most  respect- 
able." 

Suddenly  the  door  flew  open;  the  light  of  the  candle 
shone  out  in  the  hall.  For  a  moment  the  enraged 
woman  was  silent.  She  bounded  forward,  catching  her 
foot  in  her  dress,  and  would  have  fallen  had  not  Jack 
caught  her  in  his  arms.  He  held  her  arms  as  in  a  vise. 
When  she  found  she  could  not  use  them  she  shrieked  at 
the  top  of  her  voice,  "Murther !  murther !"  over  and  over 
again. 

Footsteps  sounded  through  the  halls;  doors  opened, 
while  tenants  hung  over  banisters;  children  cried  in 
terror. 

"Shet  yer  jaw,"  was  Jack's  command  in  a  voice  of 
thunder. 

"Mother !  mother !  be  still :  I'm  married,"  and  Mary, 
taking  the  certificate  from  her  dress,  held  it  in  front 
of  the  screaming,  struggling  woman. 

"Married  to  that  howlin'  thramp  wid  a  v'ice  that'd 
scare  the  divil!  Let  me  get  at  yer."  The  woman 
writhed  and  twisted  in  the  grip  of  the  man. 

"Bring  her  in,  Jack,  and  shut  the  door.  There's 
nothing  she  can  break.  She'll  go  to  sleep  soon." 

"Go  to  sleep,  yer  lyin',  lazy  hussy!  Shure  it's  the 
heart  of  me  is  afire  with  the  thought  of  me  child  married 
ter  this — oh,  murther !" 


146  THE  STORY  OF 

Mary  pushed  herself  between  her  mother  and  the 
door,  closing  it  and  shutting  out  the  staring  tenants  in 
the  hall,  now  angry  because  a  policeman  appeared  on 
the  stairs. 

There  was  a  scream  and  a  fall  behind  the  closed  door. 
Mary's  mother  had  struck  her.  When  the  policeman 
entered,  Jack  was  holding  his  cap  against  Mary's  head, 
which  rested  on  his  shoulder.  The  sight  partially 
sobered  the  mother,  who  faced  the  policeman  with  a 
maudlin  smile : 

"She  tripped,  yer  honor.  Them  thralls  be  a  nuisance, 
which  yer  honor  would  find  out  if  yer  wore  one.  Tee- 
hee.  'Tis  foine  ye'd  be  in  a  thrail,  I  do  be  thinkin'." 
She  smiled  flatteringly  as  she  added  quickly,  "  'Tis  foine 
yer  are." 

"Bun  her  in.  She  struck  'er,"  said  Jack  in  a  choking 
voice.  "Kun  her  in."  He  lifted  his  cap  from  Mary's 
head  as  he  spoke.  There  was  a  movement  of  protest 
and  a  protesting  gesture  of  Mary's  hand. 

"Shure,  ye'll  not  do  that,  me  darlint.  'Twas  a  bit 
queer  I  was  with  worryin'  fer  yer.  It's  all  right  now. 
Ye're  married  to  a  foine  man. 

"Yer  honor,"  to  the  policeman,  "it's  all  right ;  yer  can 
go,  yer  honor.  I'll  sit  here;  I'm  a  bit  dizzy  wid  wake- 
fulness." 

The  policeman  looked  at  the  white  face  on  the  boy's 
shoulder  whom  he  had  known  through  all  his  starved 
life,  at  the  purple-faced  woman  rocking  back  and  forth 
on  the  box  in  the  corner,  then  into  the  face  of  the  child 
pleading  for  her  mother. 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          147 

"She'd  better  go  home/'  he  said  to  Jack  in  answer  to 
Mary's  silent  appeal. 

The  policeman  took  the  woman  gently  by  the  shoulder 
and  helped  her  out  into  the  hall.  When  they  reached 
the  street,  he  turned  her  toward  her  home,  saying,  "Ye'll 
keep  a  quiet  head  on  you  in  this  end  of  town,  if  yer 
don't  want  ter  spind  tin  days  in  the  country,  maybe  a 
bit  longer.  De  yer  mind  ?" 

The  woman  nodded  as  she  turned  toward  the  home  in 
which  a  discouraged  man  sat,  looking  with  a  pained 
expression  toward  a  gay  hat  on  which  a  rose  nodded 
familiarly  toward  him.  His  glance  fell  on  the  little 
mirror  near  the  window  in  which  he  had  often  furtively 
watched  a  round  baby  face  which  changed  to  that  of  a 
girl  often  serious,  and  worried  as  they  both  listened  for 
a  stumbling  step  on  the  stairs.  Again  he  looked  at 
the  hat  and  the  nodding  rose.  Where  was  she,  the  only 
one  in  all  the  world  who  cared  for  him — his  baby  ? 

The  night  before  Mr.  Cahill  had  waited  and  listened 
for  Mary's  return,  going  down  to  the  dock  three  times 
to  find  her.  She  thought  he  was  working,  and  was  afraid 
to  be  home  alone  with  her  mother.  His  wife  must  have 
been  worse  than  usual  that  day  or  Mary  would  not  stay 
away.  Perhaps  she  found  work  and  was  working  over- 
time. Midnight  and  Mary  was  not  home.  Neither 
could  he  find  Jack  on  the  dock ;  it  was  cold  and  he  must 
be  sleeping  somewhere  else.  The  father  dare  not  ask 
a  question  lest  it  would  start -the  people  talking.  He 
sat  by  the  window  after  midnight  shivering  as  he  listened 
to  the  footfalls  on  the  street,  hoping  for  the  one  he 
knew.  From  the  alley  there  floated  out  now  and  then 


148  THE  STORY  OP 

fragments  of  laughter,  and  voices  high  and  boisterous. 
He  knew  that  before  long  the  laughter  would  turn  to 
shrieks  of  anger  as  the  group  at  the  Donovan's  became 
more  drunken.  The  centre  of  that  group  was  his  wife, 
the  mother  of  his  child.  Waves  of  shame  swept  over 
him;  he  never  could  get  hardened  to  the  disgrace  she 
brought  to  his  house  or  the  place  she  held  in  the  com- 
munity. He  grew  resentful  as  he  saw  what  a  burden 
she  had  put  on  his  child.  The  home  was  barren.  Long 
ago  he  had  given  up  the  thought  of  keeping  in  it  any- 
thing that  his  wife  could  sell  or  pawn.  She  would  not 
be  sober  now  till  Mary's  money  was  gone;  that  Mary 
had  given  her  all  her  money  Saturday  night  her  father 
was  certain.  He  had  only  two  days'  work  the  last  week, 
and  one  day's  work  had  to  go  toward  the  rent,  for  they 
were  behind.  Mary  and  he  ate  bread  and  tea  Sunday 
and  for  breakfast  that  morning.  If  she  had  had  money 
she  would  have  bought  meat.  His  eyes  grew  black  with 
anger  as  he  remembered  that  Mary  limped  the  day 
before ;  he  did  not  believe  she  slipped  as  she  said.  Why 
did  the  child  shield  her  mother? 

"She  always  does.  She'd  lie  to  cover  up  her  mother's 
tricks.  I  cannot  make  her  hold  on  to  her  money;  she 
gives  her  every  tint.  There's  no  since  in  it,  but  she 
will." 

In  his  heart  he  knew  he  loved  Mary  better  because 
she  was  so  loyal  to  her  mother. 

"She  never  sez  a  word  no  matter  what  her  mother 
does,  and  tries  to  make  things  better  when  she  comes 
home."  The  man  looked  about.  "There's  not  much  in 
it  to  make  better." 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          149 

"I  wonder  where  the  child  is?"  Mr.  Cahill  looked 
out  of  the  window,  but  no  footfall  broke  the  stillness, 
only  the  laughter  and  noise  from  the  alley.  Now  the 
tone  of  anger  had  crept  in  and  the  usual  break-up  was 
not  far  off. 

Mary's  father  went  into  the  street  and  turned  toward 
the  dock,  again  passing  Charlie  on  the  corner.  The  men 
merely  bowed. 

"Shure,  John  don't  know  how  to  manage  her. 
'Twouldn't  be  my  way  to  lave  her  wid  dat  gang.  I'd 
coax  her  like  and  get  her  home.  I'd  done  that  right  at 
first.  No,  John  blames  her,  but  his  skirts  ain't  free. 
Shure,  I  ain't  seen  little  Mary  go  down  to-night.  I 
wonder  where  the  child  is?  She's  a  nice  child,  but 
widout  the  takin'  ways  of  her  mother." 

A  crash  of  glass  followed  by  screams  sent  the  police- 
man hurrying  toward  the  alley. 

"She  shan't  be  run  in.  Shure  the  Judge  declared 
he'd  send  her  up  for  six  months  if  she  was  brought  be- 
fore him  once  more  this  year." 

Another  crash  and  shrieks,  and  the  policeman  hurried 
through  the  alley  and  up  the  dark,  rickety  stairs.  As 
he  pushed  open  the  door  silence  fell;  one  woman  was 
pushed  into  the  bedroom  and  the  door  shut. 

"Donovan,  youse  better  clear  the  gang  out;  there'll 
be  trouble.  I  don't  want  to  run  none  of  yez  in ;  I  will 
if  the  noise  don't  stop." 

"Look  at  the  children !" 

The  man  named  Donovan  picked  up  a  baby  from 
the  corner  and  took  by  the  hand  a  little  girl ;  he  pushed 


150  THE   STORY   OF 

open  the  door  of  the  bedroom  and  put  both  on  the  bed, 
stepping  over  a  woman  who  had  fallen  on  the  floor. 

When  the  policeman  came  into  the  room  Mrs.  Cahill 
drew  back '  into  the  corner  behind  the  bureau.  She 
raised  her  hands  instinctively  and  twisted  up  the  mass 
of  hair  that  had  fallen  down  her  back. 

"Come,  now,  everybody  go  home;  we've  had  enough 
of  this.  If  yez  go  on  the  patrol  will  be  here  in  an  hour, 
and  I  know  it.  Come,  now,  Kate,  you  and  Mike  go 
home ;  yer  baby's  been  crying  half  the  night.  Go  home." 
Urging,  persuading,  coaxing  he  cleared  the  room.  As 
he  turned  to  the  corner  where  the  woman  had  tried  to 
hide  herself  from  him,  he  said  in  carefully  guarded 
tone,  "Come,  Mary."  The  woman  stood  up  and  tried  to 
walk  steadily.  Charlie  did  not  touch  her  till  they  were 
in  the  dark  hall;  then  gently,  pityingly  he  took  her  by 
the  arm  and  steadied  her  down  the  stairs  and  through 
the  alley. 

Going  through  the  alley  he  whispered:  "For  God's 
sake,  Mary,  stop !  The  Judge  has  vowed  he'll  send  you 
up  for  six  months.  They'll  put  yer  in  the  Eeformatory 
and  they'll  keep  yer  there.  Stop,  yer  ruinin'  yerself. 
For  yer  child's  sake,  stop." 

The  woman's  head  hung  lower ;  she  tried  to  get  away 
from  him.  He  gave  a  quick  glance  up  and  down  the 
street  and  then  said:  "Yer  must  go  home.  I  won't 
leave  yer  till  ye're  home.  Come,  Mary,  come." 

The  effort  at  resistance  lessened;  quietly  the  woman 
allowed  the  policeman  to  guide  her  to  her  own  door ;  he 
turned  the  knob  and  she  entered;  as  she  stood  in  the 
doorway  she  turned  and  looking  at  him — the  memory  of 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          151 

her  life  in  her  eyes — she  said:  "I  don't  want  to, 
Charlie,  but  it  makes  me  forget." 

"My  God!" 

The  woman  shut  the  door ;  the  man  staggered  out  into 
the  street. 

"Off  post,  Charlie!" 

"Yes,  Billy.  I  took  Mary  home;  yez  told  me  the 
Judge  said  he'd  give  her  six  months." 

The  roundsman  turned  away  muttering,  "Of  all  the 
fools  he's  the  biggest." 

Mr.  Cahill  came  hurrying  up  the  street,  meeting 
Charlie  at  the  door. 

"Have  you  seen  the  child?  I  can't  find  her.  She 
ain't  workin'  and  she  went  out  early  looking.  She  must 
have  washed,  for  I  found  the  things  hangin'.  She  has 
on  her  old  hat,  so  she  ain't  gone  with  the  girls.  Jack 
ain't  about.  Where  is  the  child  ?" 

"I  ain't  seen  her  at  all.  John,  I  took  Mary  up  stairs ; 
keep  her  in.  If  she  comes  before  the  Judge  this  year, 
he'll  send  her  up  for  six  months." 

"I  wish  to  God  he'd  send  her  up  f er  life !" 

The  policeman  shut  his  fists  and  then  walked  away. 

"Poor  Mary,  it's  no  wonder  she  drinks.  I  wonder 
why  I  didn't  hit  him  ?"  He  removed  his  hat  and  walked 
back  slowly.  "I  know  if  I'd  got  her  it  would  have  been 
different.  Poor  Mary!"  After  a  long  interval — "But 
Kittie  Kerrigan  was  a  little  imp,"  he  added,  vin- 
dictively. 

When  John  Cahill  entered  his  home  his  wife  was 
lying  on  her  face  on  the  lounge,  and  there  he  left  her. 


152  THE   STORY  OF 

He  shut  the  door  of  the  bedroom  as  if  to  shut  out  the 
memory  of  the  woman  who  had  burdened  his  life. 

Where  was  his  child  ?  No  thought  of  evil  to  her  that 
came  from  within  troubled  her  father.  He  had  watched 
her  so  closely,  knew  her  so  well.  Had  she  grown  tired 
of  the  struggle  and  gone  away  to  get  rid  of  it  ?  If  so  she 
would  let  him  know  and  he  would  follow  her.  If  he 
had  known  they  might  have  gone  together.  What  had 
her  mother  done  that  could  drive  Mary  from  her?  He 
would  hear  from  Mary  and  go  to  her.  In  spite  of  his 
confidence  the  night  proved  long  and  the  father  wel- 
comed the  gray  dawn  that  promised  the  day.  He  hur- 
ried to  the  docks  and  gained  two  hours'  work.  He  must 
have  money.  New  life  and  energy  had  come  to  him, 
there  was  a  promise  that  he  might  drop  his  burden. 
"She  was  always  smart/'  repeated  the  father  many 
times  during  the  day.  At  night  he  returned  to  an 
empty  house,  but  he  sat  by  the  window  to  wait. 
Mary  would  send  for  him.  He  would  not  risk  Mary's 
finding  the  house  empty,  or  leaving  her  alone  with  her 
mother.  Where  her  mother  was  he  did  not  know  or  care. 
She  had  gone  out  leaving  everything  in  disorder.  The 
house  gave  evidence  that  Mary  had  not  been  in  it;  the 
hat  with  the  rose  hung  over  the  mirror,  but  the  promise 
it  gave  of  the  owner's  return  was  fainter.  Mr.  Cahill 
was  restless  and  uneasy,  but  he  did  not  go  on  the  street 
lest  the  girls  would  ask  him  questions.  As  he  waited 
there  was  the  familiar  stumbling  step  on  the  stairs,  his 
wife  was  coming.  The  man's  face  hardened. 

The  door  opened  and  Mrs.   Cahill  came  in  nearly 
sober,  but  evidently  excited.    No  word  was  exchanged. 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          153 

The  woman  took  off  her  hat  and  threw  back  her  shawl. 
She  looked  at  her  husband  with  the  intent  of  speaking, 
but  his  face  was  forbidding.  She  began  clearing  up 
the  table  and  straightening  the  disorderly  room.  She 
went  to  the  mirror  and  took  down  the  hat.  The  mo- 
ment she  touched  it  the  man  eyed  her  sharply.  As  she 
folded  the  newspaper  about  it  he  asked  angrily : 

"What  are  you  doing  with  that  hat?" 

"I  suppose  Mary  will  want  it  now  she's  married;  a 
fine  match  she's  made!" 

"Mary  married?" 

"Yes,  to  Jack  Kerry.  Shure  it's  a  fine  house  they 
have."  There  was  scorn  in  the  woman's  voice,  and  tears 
as  well. 

"Where  is  she?"  Mr.  Cahill's  hat  was  on  his  head 
and  he  grasped  the  paper  covering  the  hat. 

"Where  is  the  child  ?"  he  demanded  again. 

"In  a  hall  bedroom  on  Stanton  street.  She's  finely 
married;  she's  sitting  on  a  soap  box  and  lying  on  the 
floor." 

"Can't  yer  tell  me  where  she  is  ?" 

"I  don't  know  the  number;  Mamie  Donovan  met  her 
on  the  street  to-day.  Shure  everybody  knew  she  wasn't 
home  last  night,  and  Mamie  Donovan  asked  her  where 
she  was;  Mamie  told  me,  and  I  went  to  the  house  this 
afternoon.  Shure  it's  a  fine  match  she  made.  I  hope 
ye're  proud." 

Mr.  Cahill  looked  at  his  wife.  The  scorn  ana  anger 
in  his  eyes  made  his  wife  cringe  as  if  before  a  blow. 

"She'll  not  be  beaten  by  you  when  ye're  drunk.  Yer 
struck  her  Sunday.  I'm  glad  she's  got  beyond  yer 


154  THE  STORY  OF 

reach;  nothin'  could  be  worse  than  this."  He  shut 
the  door  and  went  down  the  stairs.  He  walked  Stanton 
street  between  the  Bowery  and  the  river,  but  he  could 
not  find  Mary.  He  would  not  ask  Mamie  Donovan.  No 
one  should  know  that  Mary  had  not  told  him. 

"She  never  did  anything  without  telling  me.  God 
help  the  child!  It's  a  sorry  future  she  has,  for  Jack 
can't  catch  on.  But  it's  better  nor  blows  and  a  mother 
never  sober."  His  heart  ached  for  Mary's  future  that 
was  forecasted  by  Jack's  past  and  he  was  hurt  by  the 
silence  that  separated  him  from  Mary.  When  he  reached 
home  he  was  surprised  to  find  his  wife  there. 

"Can  you  tell  me  where  the  child  is  ?" 

"John,  I  don't  know.  Mamie  Donovan  told  me,  and 
I  found  her.  I  could  not  tell  you.  It's  on  Stanton 
street,  that's  all  I  know." 

The  woman's  face  showed  that  the  mother  in  her  was 
awake.  She,  too,  saw  the  toil,  the  weariness,  the  suffer- 
ing that  poverty  would  bring  to  the  child  who  had  come 
to  womanhood  without  her  knowledge,  and  had  chosen 
her  future  in  defiance  of  her  mother's  wish. 

When  Mrs.  Cahill  thought  of  Johnny  Murphy,  her 
rage  against  Jack  grew. 

After  her  mother  left  them  Jack  held  Mary,  wiping 
her  face,  her  head  resting  on  his  arm.  There  was  a 
knock  at  the  door  and  the  little  round  groceryman  en- 
tered. He  sat  down  on  the  box  and  looked  sorrowfully 
at  the  two  who  seemed  to  belong  to  him. 

"Jack,  I  mus'  haf  you  mofe.  Der  peoples  in  de 
hous  is  madt  dat  der  ist  noise,  und  dat  a  policemans 
corned  in;  it  spoilt  der  house,  day  say." 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          155 

Mary  started  up. 

"Oh,  Jacob,  don't  make  Jack  move.  Don't  put  us 
out.  She  won't  come  again.  I'll  go  and  see  her  every 
day.  Don't  put  us  out.  Jack  couldn't  help  it.  She's 
been  off  a  week.  She'll  keep  sober  now  for  a  good 
while.  I  know  her.  Tell  the  people,  Jacob,  she  won't 
come  again."  Mary's  sobs  pierced  the  heart  of  both 
men.  Jack's  head  dropped  lower  as  he  watched  this 
girl  whose  laugh  was  the  only  music  he  ever  loved. 

Mr.  Jacob  stood  up.  "Don't  you  cry,  Mary.  Day  can 
all  mofe.  I  want  some  more  room.  Mine  Gretchen  she 
come,"  he  added.  "I  sent  for  mine  Gretchen  to  make 
me  a  home.  Yas.  You  ist  right.  You  stay." 

Jacob  went  downstairs  and  met  the  spokesman  with 
determined  face  and  voice. 

"Ya ;  dat  ist  so,  but  day  stay.  Day  cannot  help  what 
her  mudder  do.  If  you  no  like,  der  ist  odder  houses," 
and  Jacob  mounted  his  high  stool;  the  conference  was 
ended. 

Upstairs  Jack  and  Mary  sat  in  quiet ;  Mary  was  white 
and  the  lines  on  her  face  told  of  more  than  pain,  but 
she  did  not  speak. 

Jack  was  certain  she  was  thinking  of  her  father.  He, 
too,  was  troubled. 

"Jack,  I  want  to  see  me  father.  I  don't  dare  go  to 
the  house,  nor  you  mustn't.  I  know  me  father  will 
worry.  I  didn't  want  him  to  know  till  we  both  had 
work.  I  thought  we'd  get  it  to-day,  but  I  must  tell  me 
father." 

"  I'll  go  see  him  now."    Jack's  cap  was  on  his  head. 


156  THE  STORY  OF 

"Get  Charlie  to  get  him.  Don't  go  near  the  house, 
she'll  make  a  TOW,  and  it  nearly  kills  me  father." 

Jack  hurried  away. 

Few  people  were  on  the  streets ;  the  cold  rain  seemed 
to  penetrate  even  thick  coats,  and  these  were  not  abun- 
dant in  Jack's  world  this  November. 

Charlie  stood  in  the  shelter  of  the  awning  at  the 
corner,  a  line  of  anxiety  making  him  appear  the  very 
embodiment  of  law  and  order. 

Jack  turned  the  familiar  corner,  a  consciousness  of 
wealth  and  prosperity  animating  him  as  he  looked  at 
the  dock  and  the  barrels  to  which  he  would  never  be 
driven  again  for  shelter.  Charlie  stepped  out  into 
sight. 

"Hello !" 

The  line  on  his  face  became  a  scowl,  but  he  did  not 
ask  the  question  it  took  all  his  control  to  restrain. 

"Hello !"  answered  Jack,  half  shyly,  and  yet  with  a 
glance  of  triumph,  "I  ain't  seen  you  for  a  couple  of 
days." 

"Where've  you  been  ?" 

Jack  blushed  as  he  answered,  "Getting  married." 

"Married !"  the  policeman  gasped. 

"Yes,  me  and  Mary,  we're  housekeeping." 

The  policeman  leaned  for  support  on  the  coal  box. 

"With  what?    Yer  haven't  a  blame  cent." 

"We  ain't  got  much,  but  we're  housekeeping;  I'm 
goin'  for  Mr.  Cahill  now." 

The  policeman  looked  after  him  admiringly :  "If  I'd 
had  his  nerve,  it  would  have  been  better  for  Mary.  How 
did  he  make  the  little  one  do  it?  They  get  old  before 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          157 

they're  weaned  nowadays.  Jack  and  Mary  married!" 
He  was  quiet  for  a  time  and  then  muttered,  "John  will 
be  glad/'  The  lines  on  his  face  deepened  as  he  added, 
"Will  he  leave  her  ?  My  God,  what  would  I  do !  She'd 
be  homeless  and  I  could  not  save  her."  He  walked  oul; 
in  the  rain.  "He  shall  not  leave  her ;  he  has  no  right. 
If  I  see  him  I'll  ask  what  is  he  goin'  to  do."  He  walked 
on,  passing  the  house  and  returning  again;  when  he 
reached  the  shelter  of  the  awning  he  wiped  his  hair 
back  with  his  hand  from  his  forehead.  "John  shall  not 
leave  her;  he  has  no  right." 

"I  must  go  meself,"  Jack  muttered,  as  he  walked  along 
after  leaving  Charlie.  "Maybe  she  ain't  there,"  he 
added,  hopefully,  knocking  on  the  door.  There  was  the 
movement  of  a  chair  and  a  quick  step  toward  the  door. 
It  opened,  Mr.  Cahill  stood  looking  at  Jack.  They 
faced  each  other  a  minute  and  then  Jack  put  out  his 
hand,  which  was  grasped  warmly.  Mr.  Cahill  stepped 
back,  and  Jack  came  in,  closing  the  door  behind  him. 
Mrs.  Cahill  did  not  move  from  the  table,  nor  did  Jack 
notice  her. 

"We  didn't  mean  to  do  it,  Mr.  Cahill !  Yesterday  I 
met  Mary,  she  was  limpin',  and  I  knew  what  had  hap- 
pened." 

Mrs.  Cahill  sprang  to  her  feet.  Jack  faced  her,  but 
took  both  father  and  mother  in  at  a  glance  as  he  went 
on  calmly,  unconscious  of  the  hurt  he  gave  the  father. 
"She  didn't  have  no  one  to  take  care  of  her,  and  neither 
did  I.  We  just  had  each  other,  and  we  got  spliced." 

The  father  grew  white  as  his  hands  opened  and 
closed. 


158  THE  STORY  OF 

As  though  Mary's  mother  was  not  there,  Jack  con- 
tinued: "Her  mother  has  beaten  her  two  and  three 
times  a  week  lately.  She  takes  all  her  money  and  gives 
her  nothin'.  You  ain't  had  much  for  months,  and  Mary 
was  hungry  yesterday."  Her  father  groaned  as  he  sank 
in  a  chair.  "If  we  both  got  ter  be  hungry  we  might  as 
well  be  hungry  togedder ;  it's  easier  for  both  of  us."  He 
straightened  up,  looking  taller  and  more  manly.  In  a 
voice  firm  and  clear  he  went  on,  looking  at  Mrs.  Cahill, 
who  held  on  to  her  chair,  "Mary  may  be  hungry,  I  ain't 
sayin'  she  won't  be,  for  I  ain't  caught  on  to  a  steady  job 
yet,  but  dere's  one  thing,  she'll  never  be  struck  again, 
and  when  she  works  she'll  have  her  wages."  His  eyes 
were  flashing.  "If  yer  ever  strike  Mary  again  I'll  send 
yer  up  fer  it  no  matter  what  Mary  sez.  Yer  got  off  this 
time,  but  yer  never  will  again,  remember  what  I  tell  yer. 
If  yer  come  where  Mary  is,  yer  must  keep  a  civil 
tongue.  I  ain't  afraid  of  yer,  and  yer  won't  make  Mary 
afraid  of  yer  again.  If  yer  come  with  the  booze  on  yer 
and  I'm  there  I'll  throw  you  out.  Yer  won't  strike  her 
if  I'm  there.  If  yer  strike  her  and  I'm  not  there  I'll 
have  yer  run  in  if  it  takes  all  me  wages.  Now  yer  listen 
to  what  I'm  tellin'  yer,  for  I'm  givin'  it  to  yer  straight." 
He  took  a  step  nearer  the  woman,  his  hands  working. 
"She's  marked  now  where  yer  struck  her."  Mr.  Cahill 
groaned.  "But  yer'll  never  mark  her  again  and  not  pay 
for  it." 

The  woman,  thoroughly  cowed,  sat  down. 

"Mr.  Cahill,  Mary  wants  to  see  yer.  I've  come  for 
yer.  Don't  feel  hard  at  anything  I've  said.  Yer  never 
could  keep  her  mother  straight,  but  I  won't  have  her 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          159 

strike  Mary.  I  don't  know  as  yer  could  help  it/'  he 
added,  apologetically,  as  he  saw  the  man  bowed  with 
more  than  the  weight  of  years. 

"Come,  Mr.  Cahill,  Mary  wants  yer." 

They  went  out  together,  closing  the  door.  Mrs.  Cahill 
sat  down.  There  was  no  sound  but  the  ticking  of  the 
clock  and  the  intermittent  patter  of  the  rain  on  the 
windows.  She  looked  about  the  room.  She  put  her 
hand  in  her  pocket,  withdrawing  it  slowly,  it  was 
empty.  Her  eye  wandered,  it  rested  on  the  shawl  hang- 
ing on  the  chair  where  she  had  thrown  it;  she  walked 
over  to  it  and  held  it  up,  shaking  her  head  as  its  holes 
and  tears  were  made  visible.  Again  her  eyes  wandered 
about  the  room;  she  started.  There  was  Mary's  hat  in 
the  newspaper.  She  took  it  eagerly,  threw  the  shawl 
over  her  head  and  hurried  down  stairs.  She  stood  a 
moment  at  the  door,  then  carefully  protecting  the  hat 
with  her  shawl,  she  turned  toward  the  corner.  As  she 
stepped  under  the  awning  there  was  the  gleam  of  brass 
buttons  and  a  familiar  voice  said  softly,  "Mary."  The 
woman  stopped,  then  hurried  forward.  A  detaining 
hand  was  laid  on  her  arm,  and  a  voice,  persuasive  and 
low,  "I  can't  let  yer,  Mary.  I  can't  let  yer.  Yer  must 
stop.  Give  me  what  yer  have  under  yer  shawl  and  go 
home."  A  white  face  was  raised,  and  the  lips  drawn 
tried  to  frame  words,  but  could  not.  Again  she  tried  to 
escape,  holding  the  newspaper  bundle  tightly. 

"There's  no  use,  Mary,  I  won't  let  yer.  Yer  can't  get 
off  to-night.  I'm  goin'  to  watch  yer.  Listen,  Mary," 
he  continued,  gently,  "John  will  go  off  and  yer  won't 
have  a  place  to  lay  yer  head.  He's  kept  the  home  for 


160  THE   STORY   OF 

Mary,  and  now  she's  married  he'll  go  to  her  or  make  a 
home  for  himself  somewhere  else.  John  won't  stand  this 
when  the  child  is  not  there.  Yer  must  stop." 

"I  can't  now,  Charlie.  I  can't  now,  it's  too  late.  Let 
me  go."  She  struggled  to  free  herself.  He  disengaged 
her  hand,  putting  the  hat  on  the  coal  box,  wrapped  the 
shawl  more  tightly  about  her,  and  turned  her  around. 
"Mary,  yer  must  go  home.  Yer  shan't  get  it  to-night, 
f  er  I'll  stand  between  you  and  it."  The  tone  of  his  voice 
carried  the  conviction  of  her  helplessness.  She  walked 
into  the  rain.  Having  put  the  hat  out  of  sight  behind 
the  corner  of  the  box,  Charlie  followed  her.  His  foot- 
steps stopped  as  she  entered  the  hall  door,  assuring  her 
that  she  could  not  escape  him.  With  evident  difficulty 
she  climbed  the  stairs  and  entered  her  home,  throwing 
herself  on  the  lounge,  worn  out  mentally  and  physically. 

"I'll  not  leave  the  block  to-night  if  I'm  broke  for  it," 
was  the  thought  of  the  man  as  he  turned  from  the  door 
and  walked  back  to  the  corner. 

The  habit  of  silence  when  most  deeply  moved  con- 
trolled Mary's  father  and  her  husband  as  they  walked 
quickly  through  the  silent  streets.  When  they  entered 
the  hall  of  the  house  in  which  was  the  new  home,  a 
light  gleamed  out,  and  a  girlish  figure  leaned  over  the 
balustrades.  "Are  you  there,  father?"  As  he  reached 
the  top  two  arms  were  wound  around  his  neck,  and  the 
voice  he  loved  most  in  the  world  whispered,  "I  didn't  ex- 
pect to,  father,  or  I'd  told  yer." 

The  man  was  shaken  out  of  himself  by  this  demon- 
stration. Never  had  Mary  expressed  her  love  for  him 
by  outward  manifestation.  He  almost  carried  her  to 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          161 

the  light,  and  looked  searchingly  at  her.  The  bruise  on 
her  forehead  he  saw  at  once,  and  his  eyes  flashed  while 
he  pushed  back  the  hair  that  partially  covered  it. 

"She  meant  yer  should  remember  she'd  been  here," 
he  said,  bitterly,  as  Mary  quickly  drew  the  hair  low 
on  her  temple. 

"She'll  never  do  it  again,"  came  in  tones  of  positive 
conviction  from  the  doorway. 

Mary  blushed,  but  flashed  her  faith  to  her  husband 
from  her  beautiful  eyes. 

"Make  yerself  comfortable  on  the  sofy,  Mr.  Cahill.," 
said  Jack,  as  he  pointed  to  one  of  the  boxes,  sitting 
down  on  the  floor  against  the  wall  and  clasping  his  hands 
about  his  knees,  "I'll  take  this  easy  chair,  it's  large." 

Mr.  Cahill  smiled,  accepted  the  proffered  seat,  and 
looked  into  the  face  of  his  daughter,  shining  with  hope 
and  happiness. 

"We  didn't  think  of  it,  father.  I  met  Jack  and  we 
walked  over  here,  'cause  the  girls  has  been  talking  foolish 
about  me  and  Jack.  Jack  was  down,  and,  father,"  Mary 
waited — "mother  seemed  to  be  mad  at  me  whenever  she 
was  off.  You  didn't  want  me  to  give  her  me  envelope, 
but  I  just  had  to.  I  knew  it  made  it  worse,  but  I 
couldn't  say  nothin'.  Sunday  she  was  awful,  and" — she 
stopped  again.  "It  didn't  seem  no  use,  so  I  just  went 
with  Jack." 

"We'll  get  on.  Don't  yer  be  afraid,  Mr.  Cahill;  I 
ain't."  Jack  looked  at  his  wife.  There  was  a  garden  of 
Eden,  and  it  was  filled  with  the  flowers — Hope.  To 
the  world  this  garden  was  barren,  but  to  the  man  and 
woman  who  made  it  it  was  prodigal  in  its  promises  of 


162  THE  STORY  OF 

future  wealth.  The  man  who  had  passed  through  it 
once  did  not  unsheath  the  sword  of  experience  and  by  its 
flash  wither  the  fragile  blossoms.  For  him  even  the 
blossoms  sprang  up,  but  his  daughter  was  to  gather 
them. 

The  plans  for  getting  work  were  those  with  which  he 
was  familiar.  He  agreed  with  Mary  that  she  must 
work  at  least  until  Jack  had  a  regular  job. 

The  father  went  back  to  his  home.  As  he  turned  the 
corner,  Charlie  met  him  with  the  hat  carefully  pro- 
tected in  his  hands. 

"I  took  it  from  her,  John ;  she  was  going  to  sell  it." 

"Thank  you,  Charlie,"  was  the  response  as  Mr.  Cahill 
moved  on. 

"John!"   Mr.  Cahill  stopped. 

"Be  good  to  Mary.  No;  listen  to  me.  Yer  knew 
when  yer  took  her  that  she  belonged  to  me."  Mr.  Cahill 
flushed.  "She  was  mad  at  me  for  goin'  with  Kittie 
Kerrigan  to  that  party.  Yer  knew  that,  and  knew  when 
she  went  wid  yer  that  if  she  hadn't  been  mad  she  never 
would  have  gone.  It's  God's  truth  I'm  givin'  yer  and  you 
know  it.  Yer  found  that  you  could  coax  a  girl  to  marry 
you,  but  yer  didn't  know  how  to  coax  love  fer  yer  into 
her  heart.  Mary's  done  wrong.  I  know  that  as  well  as 
you  do,  but  you  did  wrong  first.  What  was  she  but  a 
child !  Now  this  is  what  I  want  to  say  ter  yer :  She'll 
not  get  it  when  I  can  help  it.  She's  your  wife  and  it's 
you  who  ought  to  save  her.  Keep  her  from  the  Dono- 
van gang  and  she'll  learn  to  do  widout.  John,  don't 
leave  her  alone,  yer  know  what  w'd  happen.  There's  not 
a  soul  to  keep  her  back.  Don't  lave  her.  You  took  her 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          163 

when  she  was  but  a  child ;  yer  have  no  right  to  put  her 
on  the  street.  John,  don't  f ergit  she's  the  mother  of  yer 
child  and  that  you  spoilt  her  life  first.  Don't  leave  her." 

John  Cahill  looked  into  the  eyes  of  the  man  before 
him  and  answered,  quietly: 

"I'll  keep  a  home  fer  her,  but  I  wish  ter  God  she  was 
dead." 

The  policeman  watched  him  as  he  walked  away.  "It's 
a  hard  heart  he  has.  Mary  had  no  chance  wid  him." 
He  wiped  off  his  forehead  and  replaced  his  hat,  saying, 
"Bad  cess  to  Kittie  Kerrigan.  It's  black-haired  imps 
like  her  that  do  upset  the  world." 

John  Cahill  walked  home.  He  found  his  wife  sitting 
in  the  dark.  Neither  spoke. 

The  next  morning,  with  her  hair  dropping  lower  on 
her  temple,  Mary  started  early  with  Jack  to  find  work. 
Jacob  beckoned  them  in  and  gave  them  steaming  cups 
of  coffee  in  the  little  room  back  of  the  store.  Full  of 
courage,  and  believing  the  world  a  beautiful  place,  they 
started  out  after  helping  Jacob  clear  up  and  arrange  his 
stock  for  the  day. 

At  night  Mary  returned  footsore,  but  hopeful  that  the 
next  day  would  see  the  beginning  of  better  things.  The 
story  of  their  marriage  had  spread  abroad,  and  the  con- 
gratulations were  followed  by  the  offer  to  come  and  see 
them.  Jack  would  have  greeted  each  suggestion  with  a 
cordial  invitation,  but  Mary  had  schooled  him. 

"Not  one  of  them,  Jack,  shall  come  till  we  get  some 
things  I  won't  have  them  talking.  Just  think  how 
they'd  talk! — to  come  and  be  asked  to  sit  on  the  floor. 
Don't  I  know  how  they  talk  ?  I'll  get  work  soon." 


164  THE  STORY   OF 

Jack  yielded  to  Mary,  but  had  no  sympathy  with  her 
views. 

Jack's  job  was  over  at  the  end  of  the  week,  the  owner 
of  the  wagon  was  able  to  get  about  himself.  Weary 
days  followed.  The  dollar  which  they  hoped  to  keep 
whole  they  had  to  spend.  The  few  dimes  Jack  earned 
kept  them  in  bread.  Mary  avoided  the  old  shops  where 
she  used  to  find  work,  and  at  last  the  streets  with  which 
she  was  familiar ;  her  clothes  had  grown  so  shabby.  Jack 
was  accustomed  to  shabbiness  and  his  world  to  his  ap- 
pearance, so  this  did  not  limit  his  freedom. 

Mary's  mother  was  on  the  Island  again.  Mary  went 
home  one  night  and  washed  for  herself,  Jack  and  her 
father ;  clumsy  was  the  assistance  Jack  gave,  but  he  was 
determined  to  make  Mary's  work  lighter. 

"I  don't  know,"  was  the  thought  that  formed  itself  in 
the  father's  mind  as  he  watched  Jack,  "perhaps  if  I'd 
given  her  a  lift  now  and  then  it  might  have  been  differ- 
ent. I  never  thought  it  man's  work." 

The  next  day  Mary  felt  she  could  venture  into  the  old 
streets;  try  in  some  of  the  old  shops  for  work.  As  she 
turned  into  Walker  street  a  familiar  voice  called  out : 

"My  lands,  where  have  yer  hidden  yerself  ?  The  boss 
has  had  us  chasin'  yer  f  er  three  days ;  he  can't  get  hands 
enough.  It  won't  last  long,  but  it's  good  while  it  lasts." 

Mary  went  to  work  for  the  old  boss  that  morning. 

Jack  was  still  out  of  a  job,  "counting  cracks  in  the 
sidewalk,"  as  he  expressed  it.  The  odd  jobs  meant 
nothing  permanent  and  Jack  was  reluctant  to  take  them 
lest  he  should  lose  a  chance  with  some  of  the  hucksters. 
His  hope  was  to  get  a  regular  "job"  with  a  vender,  and 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          165 

to  this  he  directed  his  efforts.  Everything  about  this 
work  appealed  to  Jack.  He  was  conscious  that  he  could 
meet  its  every  demand.  He  liked  the  freedom,  being  in- 
doors smothered  him.  True,  he  had  only  been  employed 
a  few  days  indoors,  but  he  remembered  it  with  dislike 
and  made  no  attempt  to  get  indoor  work;  he  felt  he 
could  not  meet  its  demands.  Calling  lustily  from  the 
back  step  of  a  vender's  cart,  the  proud  possessor  of  a 
voice  not  surpassed,  if  equalled  on  the  East  Side,  greet- 
ing with  jokes  the  women  who  came  to  buy,  weighing 
and  measuring,  all  this  gave  Jack  a  sense  of  importance 
which  imparted  a  certain  dignity  to  his  movements,  and 
aroused  admiration  among  the  customers.  If  he  had  a 
cart  and  horse  of  his  own  Jack  would  not  have  changed 
places  with  the  President.  There  was  a  balance  of  com- 
mon sense  in  Jack  that  saved  him.  He  knew  he  could 
be  a  successful  vender,  as  a  President  he  realized  himself 
as  a  failure.  But  he  was  out  now  and  had  been  for 
weeks,  every  day  he  hurried  away  early  and  each  day 
returned  disappointed.  He  resented  the  thought  of 
Mary  earning  money,  doubly  so  her  having  regular 
wages,  now  their  dependence.  Mary  was  unconscious  of 
Jack's  feeling  and  worked  on  gladly. 

One  night  a  small  boy  came  after  Jack.  When  he 
came  back  he  was  radiant.  "The  cove's  foot,"  he  an- 
nounced, "is  bad.  He  can't  work  at  all.  He  wants  me 
to  take  the  cart  and  keep  the  route  until  he  comes  from 
the  hospital.  Eight  dollars  a  week,"  he  announced,  sol- 
emnly. They  looked  at  each  other  in  silence  for  some 
minutes. 


166  THE  STORY  OF 

"Now  yer  shan't  work."  It  was  a  tone  of  command. 
Mary  shook  her  head. 

"We  need  so  much,  Jack,  we  must  have  things.  I'll 
stop  when  we  have  things  and  your  job  is  sure." 

Jack  yielded  reluctantly.  The  glory  of  a  regular  job 
at  eight  dollars  a  week  was  greatly  diminished.  His 
wife  would  earn  wages,  would  not  depend  on  him. 

It  was  not  long  before  things  filled  the  little  room,  and 
they  soon  learned  that  things  are  a  far  greater  burden 
than  nothing  if  you  have  no  place  for  them.  With  both 
earning  wages,  toward  spring  Jack  and  Mary  moved  to 
the  third-story  back,  the  proud  and  happy  possessors  of 
two  rooms. 

Gretchen  was  the  loving,  happy  mistress  of  the  floor 
above  the  store.  The  house  was  marked  in  the  neighbor- 
hood as  one  of  the  aristocracy;  it  enjoyed  the  proud 
distinction  of  two  families  occupying  a  whole  floor  each. 
It  was  the  one  house  where  there  were  no  lodgers,  and 
where  the  tenants  did  not  move  out.  The  front  door 
was  kept  locked ;  Jack  and  Mary  each  carried  two  keys. 

Mary  still  worked,  for  it  was  necessary  that  there 
should  be  money  ahead.  Money  was  given  each  week 
to  Jacob  to  keep  for  them.  It  was  difficult  to  tell  which 
had  the  greatest  pride  in  their  prosperity.  Certainly 
to  Jacob  it  was  a  personal  matter. 

There  was  a  new  light  in  Mary's  eyes.  Her  interest 
in  shop  windows  no  longer  centered  in  hats.  It  wan- 
dered now,  and  her  eyes  rested  longest,  and  she  specu- 
lated on  values  most,  as  she  looked  at  witching  garments 
she  had  never  noticed  before. 


CHAPTEE  VII. 

THE  HOME  AND  ITS  MISTRESS. 

MARY  never,  even  to  Jack,  acknowledged  that  working, 
after  her  marriage,  was  a  constant  mortification.  She 
knew  the  other  girls  commented  on  it.  Once  or  twice  in 
her  presence  remarks  were  made  about  married  women 
taking  the  bread  and  butter  out  of  the  mouths  of  girls 
who  had  no  one  to  work  for  them.  Mary,  but  for  the 
flash  of  anger  in  her  eyes,  made  no  response.  She  knew 
she  earned  more  money  than  any  of  the  girls  in  the 
shop,  and  at  times  she  reproached  herself  for  working  up 
to  the  limit  of  her  productive  powers  when  she  remem- 
bered their  needs.  There  was  scarcely  a  girl  there  whom 
she  knew  well  who  was  not  in  just  as  much  need  of 
money,  and  some  of  them  more  in  need  than  herself.  She 
could  not  reason  it  out.  Even  if  she  earned  less  they 
would  not  earn  more.  Some  could  earn  more  but  would 
not,  surely  she  did  not  interfere  with  them;  others 
worked  as  hard  as  she  did  and  could  not  earn  as  much. 
It  was  a  great  puzzle.  Mary  was  not  doubtful  about  one 
point,  she  dared  not  do  less  now,  for  the  "boss"  knew 
what  she  could  do ;  she  must  keep  his  friendship. 

"It's  only  for  a  little  longer;  I  must  stop  soon,"  was 
her  final  justification  to  herself. 

The  very  thought  of  giving  up  the  opportunity  to 
earn  money  filled  Mary  with  an  indefinable  fear;  a 


168  THE   STORY   OF 

yawning  chasm  opened  before  her  at  the  thought  of  de- 
pending on  another,  even  though  that  other  were  Jack,  for 
there  was  the  memory  of  Jack's  failure  in  the  past; 
would  he,  could  he  get  a  job  and  hold  it?  Try  as  she 
would  Mary  could  not  rid  her  mind  of  doubts  as  to  a 
future  when  she  could  not  earn  money  at  all  and  the 
years  to  follow  when  her  wage-earning  would  be  greatly 
limited ;  could  Jack  take  care  of  them,  or  would  she  be 
and  do  what  she  saw  other  girls  were  and  did — girls 
who  had  better  chances  than  she  ever  had  ? 

In  spite  of  fears  and  hopes,  of  mental  prophecies  col- 
ored by  love  and  fear,  the  day  came  at  last  when  "Good- 
by"  was  said  to  shop,  to  girls,  and  to  "boss."  Mary 
laughed  gayly,  responded  to  the  sallies,  and  kept  back  the 
tears.  It  was  severing  the  last  tie  with  the  old  life,  and 
taking  up  a  new  life  for  which  the  old  had  been  no 
preparation. 

Several  of  the  girls  walked  home  with  her.  These  she 
knew  envied  her — envied  her  the  freedom,  the  new 
dignity  of  being  the  mistress  of  an  establishment ;  envied 
her  the  things  which  were  her  pride  and  delight. 

"I  wish  to  God  I  never  had  to  enter  the  hole  again," 
burst  from  one  of  her  companions  with  a  fierceness 
wholly  foreign  to  her  nature;  she  was  a  quiet,  reticent 
girl;  few  of  the  girls  ever  noticed  her.  She  was  thirty- 
eight  years  old,  and  had  been  a  wage-earner  since  she 
was  twelve,  a  worker  as  long  as  she  could  remember. 
The  most  flippant  of  the  girls  were  silenced  by  this  out- 
burst of  rebellion  against  her  life.  They  knew  that  the 
hope  that  made  life  almost  blissful  in  the  vagueness  of 
its  possibilities  for  them  was  gone  out  of  her  life.  She 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          169 

had  long  since  passed  the  line  when  marriage  was  the 
door  of  escape.  To  her  this  was  closed.  She  had  been 
for  years  that  most  hopeless  of  all  tenement-house  wage- 
earners — "an  old  maid."  Her  heart  was  so  full  of  love 
that  she  rejected  the  freedom  of  a  hall  bedroom  in  a 
boarding-house.  She  clung  to  her  own  people,  and  was 
one  of  a  married  sister's  large  family,  with  all  the  privi- 
leges of  sharing  its  burdens  but  not  its  pleasures.  Now 
she  was  being  crowded  more  and  more.  Her  nieces  were 
beginning  to  have  "steadies/'  and,  when  kitchen  and 
parlor  were  occupied,  it  was  expected  that  she  would 
find  sitting-room  elsewhere.  The  consciousness  of  the 
slight  bond  between  her  and  those  she  loved  deepened 
each  day  the  lines  in  her  face.  The  hope  of  release  was 
not  quite  gone;  it  was  the  last  line  of  light  on  a  far- 
distant  hill.  Mary  looked  at  the  girl.  The  contrast  be- 
tween them  made  her  own  future  brilliant.  She  resolved 
that  this  girl  should  find  a  special  welcome  always  in  her 
home  and  Jack's.  She  would  tell  Jack  about  her. 

The  friends  parted  at  the  street  door,  each  promising 
to  see  Mary  often  and  tell  her  all  the  news  of  the  shop. 
Mary  climbed  the  stairs  slowly.  She  entered  with  a  sigh 
the  home  she  had  worked  hard  to  make.  Something  was 
gone  out  of  her  life.  She  could  earn  money  to  buy 
things,  but  this  new  life — what  did  it  hold  for  her  ? 

How  triumphant  she  had  been  through  all  these  weeks 
and  months !  Jack's  money  had  paid  the  rent  and  paid 
for  their  food.  Hers  had  bought  the  furniture  and 
Jack's  new  clothes  and  hers  now  hanging  in  the  closet, 
increasing  the  sense  of  wealth  and  prosperity.  Then 
there  was  the  money  Jacob  was  keeping  for  them — that, 


170  THE  STORY  OF 

too,  she  had  earned.  This  money  was  for  that  future  so 
full  of  mystery,  the  thought  of  which  filled  her  with 
vague  terrors.  As  she  stood  now  in  the  home  the 
thought  of  which  had  nerved  her  every  day  when  she  was 
sick  and  wreary  and  worn,  to  meet  all  that  life  in  a  shop 
full  of  thoughtless  girls  of  all  temperaments  involved,  she 
was  conscious  of  a  sense  of  desolation  and  helplessness. 
Her  relations  to  the  world  had  changed.  It  would  ex- 
pect from  her,  exact  from  her,  entirely  different  service. 
She  did  not  know  its  kind  nor  how  to  learn  to  meet 
this  new  demand.  One  thought  was  fixed.  She  would 
make  for  Jack  a  different  home  from  that  her  father  had 
known,  and  for  the — for  all  who  might  ever  come  to  it, 
it  should  be  a  different  home  from  the  one  she  had 
known.  As  she  looked  about,  she  suddenly  realized  that 
it  was  now  in  looks  very  much  like  the  home  her  mother 
made;  the  things  were  not  worn  out,  that  was  the  only 
difference.  She  threw  her  hat  on  the  floor  and  flew  at 
the  stove.  Those  ashes,  those  horrid  ashes — she  had 
always  seen  those  first  when  she  got  home.  She  was 
tired,  but  no  more  tired  than  she  had  been  many  times 
during  the  past  months.  That  was  different;  now  the 
house  was  all  her  care.  Her  relation  to  this  disorder 
was  changed.  Where  should  she  begin  ? 

Soon  ashes  were  settling  on  everything  in  the  room. 
Jack  had  always  made  the  fire  when  they  needed  one, 
but  now  it  was  her  work.  The  mechanism  of  the  grate 
baffled  her.  At  last  it  was  in  place.  She  bought  a  bundle 
of  wood  from  Jacob,  and  started  her  fire.  Then  she  sat 
down  to  wait  for  it  to  burn.  On  the  table  were  the  dishes 
^that  had  done  duty  more  than  once.  The  bed  was  un- 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          171 

made,  the  ashes  from  the  stove  were  in  part  on  the  floor, 
but  Mary  sat  quietly  waiting  for  the  fire  to  burn.  When 
she  looked  at  it  the  grate  was  empty,  and  the  teakettle 
on  the  floor  empty.  Inexperience  had  cost  Mary  time 
and  money.  This  was  the  beginning  of  many  similar 
outlays.  The  room  was  not  an  example  of  neatness  when 
Jack  came  home,  but  Jack's  sense  of  order  was  not  yet 
evolved. 

To  him  as  yet  shelter,  a  bed,  food,  and  Mary,  were  in 
a  combination  that  could  not  be  improved.  To  Mary 
the  next  morning  was  delightful.  It  was  such  a  luxury 
to  sit  down  after  the  usual  breakfast  of  bread  and  coffee 
instead  of  hurrying  off  to  work !  There  were  so  many 
long  hours  before  Jack  would  come  home  that  she  need 
not  hurry.  What  should  she  do?  Go  out  and  look  in 
the  store  windows,  not  to  buy  anything,  but  just  to  look. 
When  she  came  home  she  would  clean  up. 

A  little  longer  time  than  usual  was  spent  in  dressing 
up.  It  was  jolly  to  be  free,  but  it  was  awfully  still.  How 
she  missed  the  clang  of  the  machinery,  the  rumble  of  the 
carts!  She  started  out  radiant  with  the  thought  of 
change  from  this  quiet.  Perhaps  she  would  meet  some 
of  the  girls. 

"Well,  my,  but  ye  are  a  lady!"  greeted  Mary  as  she 
reached  Grand  street.  Mary  looked  toward  the  voice,  and 
there,  bare-headed,  with  her  dress  open  at  the  neck,  a 
basket  on  one  arm,  and  a  not  over-clean  baby  held  in 
the  other,  stood  a  girl  who  had  worked  in  the  shop  one 
season.  Mary  was  glad  to  see  her.  There  passed  through 
her  mind  the  vision  of  a  girl  who  had  gayer  hats  and 
more  new  dresses  than  any  other  girl  in  the  shop ;  a  girl 


172  THE   STORY   OF 

who  impudently  called  herself  x"the  belle  of  the  ball." 
She  alwaj^s  stood  before  the  mirror  in  the  dressing-room 
so  long  that  it  made  the  other  girls  angry,  often  causing 
fights  that  left  bad  feeling  and  made  the  lives  of  the 
lovers  of  peace  miserable.  Mary  was  silent  so  long  that 
the  woman  said  impatiently,  "Yes,  it's  me.  Wait  till 
you  have  a  cryin'  young  one,  and  a  man  that  can  swear 
and  drink  better  than  he  can  work,  and  yer  won't  look 
no  better."  With  an  injured  air  the  woman  started  to 
walk  toward  the  river.  Mary  hurried  after  her,  saying, 
"Ye're  as  huffy  as  ever,  Julia.  I  was  surprised  at  seein' 
yer.  Let  me  take  yer  basket."  Julia  yielded  her  basket 
ungraciously,,  but  did  not  speak. 

"The  baby  don't  look  very  well,"  commented  Mary, 
hoping  to  start  conversation. 

"Naw;  he  ain't  done  nothin'  but  cry  since  he  was 
born."  The  little  mite,  with  pinched  face,  as  if  to  con- 
firm its  mother's  statement,  gave  a  feeble  cry.  The 
mother  gave  it  a  hitch  which  increased  its  discomfort, 
but  it  made  no  sound.  The  uselessness  of  combating  its 
mother  the  little  baby  had  learned,  apparently,  as  did  all 
who  attempted  it.  The  baby  wrinkled  its  face  as  if  it 
would  like  to  make  a  sound,  but  was  hopeless  of  its 
bringing  relief. 

"Dear  me!  it  does  me  good  to  see  one  of  the  girls. 
It's  dreadful  to  sit  all  day  in  the  house  taking  care  of  a 
cross  baby  sick  half  the  time.  Then  have  him  come 
home  and  jaw  the  head  off  yer  because  tbe  supper  isn't 
ready,  or  it  isn't  right,  and  get  mad  and  go  out  and 
leave  yer  all  alone  till  yer  don't  know  what  time."  Julia's 
voice  was  expressive  of  deepest  self-pity.  She  had  for- 


AN  EAST-  SIDE  FAMILY          173 

gotten  the  baby  in  her  arms,  and  it  was  almost  doubled 
between  her  waist  and  elbow. 

"Why,  I  ain't  had  but  one  new  hat  since  I  was  married. 
Just  think  of  that !" 

"Neither  have  I"  laughingly  interrupted  Mary. 

"Married!  You!  Why,  I  ain't  heard  a  word  about 
it." 

This  did  not  cause  Mary  any  surprise,  as  they  had 
never  met  since  the  girl  was  discharged  for  carelessness. 
Neither  knew  the  other's  last  name.  Suddenly  a  gleam 
of  intelligence  came  into  Julia's  face,  and  in  tones  of 
deepest  pity,  she  added,  "Well,  I'm  sorry  f  er  yer." 

Mary  resented  this,  and  parted  with  Julia  at  her  door- 
way, refusing  the  urgent  invitation  to  "Come  up." 

The  desire  to  go  to  the  stores  was  gone.  Mary  went 
home. 

When  she  entered  the  disorderly  room  she  was  seized 
with  remorse.  Jack  was  working.  What  was  she  doing  ? 

"  'Tain't  fair,"  she  said  aloud,  hurriedly  changing  her 
new  dress  for  the  old. 

Again  the  struggle  with  the  fire,  which  went  out  three 
times  before  the  coal  began  to  burn.  This  time  the  kettle 
filled  with  water  went  on.  Mary  waited  for  the  water  to 
heat.  How  still  the  house  was !  What  were  the  girls 
doing?  She  glanced  at  the  clock.  Kate  probably  was 
singing  a  "sheeny"  song  so  comically  that  even  the  Jew 
girls  laughed.  Eachel  was  getting  the  lunch  money  to- 
gether ;  it  was  her  day  to  go  out.  In  a  little  while  they 
would  sit  in  groups  eating  their  lunches,  those  who  had 
none  making  believe  they  weren't  hungry.  She  had  often 
done  that  herself.  She  almost  heard  the  laughter,  the 


174  THE   STORY   OF 

spatting  like  kittens,  the  disputes  over  styles  and  colors, 
the  exchanges  of  opinions  on  the  "fellers,"  the  Jewesses 
telling  of  the  money  their  fathers  would  give  them  when 
they  were  married,  or  asking  the  sympathies  of  the  girls, 
because  their  fathers  insisted  on  their  marrying  some 
one  they  did  not  like.  She  saw  the  scorn  in  the  faces  of 
the  American  girls  for  the  weakness  that  would  submit 
to  such  dictation.  She  saw  Katie  Grady,  with  her  short 
curly  hair  rumpled  by  her  hands,  her  eyes  blazing,  stand- 
ing before  some  weeping  Eebecca,  saying,  "One  dozen 
fathers  couldn't  make  me  marry  a  man  I  did  not  want 
to  marry."  It  relieved  Katie,  but  was  no  consolation  to 
the  victim  of  a  system.  Her  usual  climax,  "Bah!  I'd 
poison  the  man,"  filled  the  others  with  horror.  At  least 
they  had  reverence  for  life.  Then  Jenny,  dear  laughing 
Jenny,  whose  wit  and  beauty  played  havoc  with  all  hearts 
— "I  wouldn't;  they'd  hang  me.  I'd  marry  the  right 
man."  The  response  to  this  would  be  in  some  form  from 
each  Eebecca,  "You  wouldn't  if  he  wouldn't  have  yer,"  a 
statement  Jenny's  experience  made  so  improbable  that 
it  always  brought  a  look  of  wondering  protest  into  her 
big  blue  eyes. 

Mary,  sitting  at  the  window  looking  out  at  the  clothes 
hanging  on  the  pulley  lines  through  the  block,  saw  it  all 
again,  lived  through  it  all,  as  she  had  day  after  day  for 
years.  Smiles  and  frowns  passed  over  her  face  at  the 
memories  of  defeats  and  successes  that  had  made  up  that 
familiar  life  into  which  she  had  passed  so  naturally.  She 
could  not  remember  when  she  had  not  anticipated  going 
to  work  and  earning  money.  She  went  into  the  world 
of  work  conscious  that  to  count  in  that  world  she  must 


AN  EAST-SIDE  FAMILY          175 

learn  how  to  meet  its  demands,  but  she  found  it  a 
reasonable  world,  for  it  made  provision  to  teach  the 
workers;  each  day  meant  a  visible  return  for  the  effort 
expended.  As  she  looked  back  Mary  saw  clearly  that  to 
her  and  to  all  the  girls  she  knew  the  days  that  counted 
against  their  happiness  were  the  days  they  could  not 
work  in  a  shop  with  a  lot  of  girls.  The  girls  all  hated 
staying  at  home  as  much  as  she  did ;  now  she  must  stay 
home  all  the  time.  Mary  sighed.  There  were  many 
things  to  do  she  knew,  but  she  did  not  know  how  to  do 
them,  nor  was  there  one  to  teach  her.  It  was  dishearten- 
ing. Mary's  pride  in  the  things  she  had  helped  to  buy 
diminished  when  she  saw  how  little  she  knew  of  the 
world  to  which  they  belonged.  And  then  there  was  that 
great  unknown  future.  How  could  she  meet  it?  In  all 
the  world  there  was  not  one  woman  to  whom  she  could  go 
and  ask  the  questions  that  would  help  her  to  see  the  way ; 
not  one  to  tell  her  what  to  do.  Waves  of  motherly  tender- 
ness swept  through  her.  She  wanted  what  the  future  was 
bringing  her,  but  she  felt  so  helpless.  Even  Jack  did  not 
talk.  If  only  she  could  tell  him  how  she  felt.  She 
would  not  tell  him  how  afraid  she  was,  that  would  worry 
Jack.  Sometimes  he  seemed  troubled  now. 

If  only  she  could  go  to  her  mother !  Mary  leaned  on 
the  table,  in  spite  of  her  effort  the  tears  fell ;  tears  of  self- 
pity  for  the  woman  who  had  no  one  to  guide  or  point  the 
way  to  that  future  so  fraught  with  dangers  and  possibili- 
ties, yet  a  future  she  would  not  turn  back  if  she  could,  for 
Jack  was  so  proud,  so  happy.  She  was  aroused  by  the 
sound  of  the  water  as  it  boiled  out  of  the  kettle. 

She  stood  up.    The  new  duties  must  be  faced  with  no 


176  THE   STORY   OF 

memory  of  the  past  to  guide  and  direct  her.  She  was 
married  and  housekeeping.  All  these  things  were  hers. 
Jack  was  hers,  and — a  soft  blush  spread  over  the  face 
that  was  so  girlish  in  spite  of  life's  experience.  "I  can 
learn,"  she  said,  hopefully. 

The  dishes  were  washed.  Housekeeping  began  in 
earnest.  Now  she  must  have  a  hot  dinner  for  Jack.  She 
was  home  all  day.  Sundays  there  had  been  the  washing, 
and  they  wanted  to  go  out  some,  so  she  had  not  tried  to 
cook,  but  now  she  would  cook.  A  frown  came  on  her 
forehead  at  the  thought  of  selection.  Corned  beef,  cab- 
bage, and  potatoes.  Jack  would  like  that.  Once  when 
they  went  to  a  restaurant  that  was  what  Jack  asked  for. 

Jacob  guided  in  the  purchase  of  groceries  and  vege- 
tables. The  butcher  thought  it  a  huge  joke  to  sell  her 
eight  pounds  of  meat.  With  a  sinking  heart  Mary  went 
home.  The  small  sum  left  in  her  purse  frightened  her. 
The  one  pot  in  the  closet  was  far  too  small  to  cook  the 
meat.  What  was  to  be  done?  Mary  looked  long  and 
earnestly  at  the  stove,  but  it  offered  no  solution.  She 
aimlessly  opened  the  oven  door.  Of  course  that  was  big 
enough.  She  took  out  the  frying-pan,  put  the  meat  in 
it,  and  put  it  in  the  oven.  The  handle  would  not  let  the 
door  close,  but  that  would  make  no  difference ;  the  oven 
was  "awful"  hot.  Potatoes  and  cabbage  were  put  in  the, 
pot  and  soon  boiling.  Housekeeping  was  very  easy !  The 
bed  was  made,  floor  swept  and  wiped.  Why,  it  was  fun ! 
Four  hours  before  Jack  came  home :  what  would  she  do  ? 
Go  down  and  see  Gretchen.  There  had  been  changes  in 
the  house  since  Jack  and  Mary  moved  in.  Long  before 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          177 

prosperity  had  come  to  them,  and  Mary  ceased  to  earn 
wages. 

The  first  flight  up  had  been  renovated,  new  furniture 
had  been  put  in  place,  shades  and  curtains  were  hung  at 
the  front  windows  and  Jacob  had  moved  into  the  front 
hall  bedroom  waiting  for  Gretchen. 

"Jack,  you  see,  I  come  to  dis  country  to  get  money  to 
marry.  I  leave  mine  Gretchen  to  wait  for  me.  I  tink 
I  go  fetch  her  when  I  get  money,  but  when  you  and  your 
steady  mof  in,  and  is  happy  mit  nodings,  I  sez  I  haf 
much,  I  send  for  Gretchen,  she  coming."  The  round 
pink  and  white  face  beamed. 

" Jacob,  you're  a  trump.  Forstand  ?  A  trump.  Take 
the  whole  pack.  Head  level,  see  I" 

Whether  Jacob  understood  the  language  or  not  is  un- 
important, he  understood  the  cordial  slap  on  the  back, 
and  the  expression  of  affection  in  Jack's  eyes. 

"Gretchen  no  speak  the  language;  she  be  very  lone- 
some. I  vish  your  Mary  speak  German.  Mine  Gretchen 
never  leaf  her  mudder  till  she  come  to  me." 

"Now,  that's  all  right,  Jacob.  Don't  you  sputter  about 
that,  she  and  Mary  will  gabble  widout  tongues.  I  know 
Mary.  They'll  hitch  it  at  once.  You  let  'em  alone." 

Jacob's  heart  was  made  glad  by  the  admiration  of 
Jack  and  Mary  for  the  things  he  had  bought  to  make  a 
home  for  Gretchen.  To  Mary  it  was  palatial.  It  did 
not  disturb  her  that  the  carpet  was  a  gorgeous  combina- 
tion of  colors  arranged  in  bouquets.  Or  that  the  parlor 
suit  was  of  crimson  and  yellow  that  made  war  at  once 
with  the  purple  lambrequin  on  the  mantel  and  the  vivid 
green  paper  on  the  wall.  The  kitchen  with  its  bare 


178  THE  STORY   OF 

floor,  a  bright  square  of  oilcloth  under  the  stove  which 
was  new  and  shining;  the  chairs  and  table  matched, 
the  wall  kalsomined  in  yellow,  made  this  room  seem  to 
Mary  beautiful.  In  the  bedroom  the  bed  and  bureau 
were  alike,  and  that  was  pretty  too. 

"I  don't  know  why,  Jack,  but  I  like  the  kitchen  best," 
she  confided  after  their  first  visit,  the  week  before 
Gretchen  arrived.  She  looked  about  her  as  they  sat  down 
in  their  own  home.  The  walls  were  the  same  color  as 
those  downstairs,  Jacob  had  painted  and  kalsomined  for 
them.  The  table  was  red,  the  chairs  yellow,  the  rocking 
chair  a  different  yellow  from  the  other  chairs,  and  the 
bed  was  almost  black.  A  frown  gathered.  Jack  fidgetted 
about,  wretched,  unhappy.  Did  she  want  things  like 
Jacob  had  bought  ?  He'd  get  them  some  time.  Jack  felt 
sure  of  that,  but  not  now.  Mary  was  quiet,  looking  out 
of  the  window,  now  and  then  giving  a  searching  glance 
about  the  room. 

"Them's  fine  things  Jacob  got  for  his  girl,"  Jack 
mustered  up  courage  at  last  to  say. 

"Yes,  they're  nice,  but  he's  got  money.  He  ain't  ever 
been  out  of  a  job.  Any  fellow  could  buy  the  things  who 
had  the  money."  Another  searching  glance.  "Jack,  we 
ought  to  have  got  our  things  the  same  color.  They  ain't 
the  same  color." 

Jack  looked  puzzled  as  he  followed  Mary's  glance 
about  the  room.  He  looked  searchingly  for  some  min- 
utes, but  his  mind  grew  no  clearer.  They  were  good 
chairs;  strong  wooden  chairs,  and  the  table  was  good. 
He  looked  at  the  bed,  why  that  was  fine.  Mary  was  still 
thinking  about  Jacob's  things.  Furtively  Jack  watched 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          179 

her.  If  only  he  could  get  a  horse  and  cart  he  could  make 
as  much  money  as  Jacob.  Why,  he  sold  more  coal  and 
wood  than  his  boss  ever  had.  Saturday  he  had  to  go 
twice  to  the  yard  to  cover  the  route.  Just  suppose  the 
cart  and  horse  were  his!  Whew!  he'd  buy  Mary  more 
things  than  Jacob  ever  thought  of.  That  was  all  right  to 
save  money,  but  Jacob  saved  too  much;  he  didn't  have 
fun  enough.  Back  to  Mary  went  Jack's  eyes  and  mind. 
Jack  was  sure  she  wanted  things  like  Jacob's.  His  heart 
was  heavy. 

"Jack,  some  time  we'll  sell  these  chairs  and  the  table 
and  buy  a  set  like  Jacob's.  We  were  greenies  when  we 
bought  these." 

Jack's  burden  fell.    His  world  was  bright  again. 

"That's  dead  easy,"  was  Jack's  reply.  To  Jack  all 
things  were  attainable — he  had  grown  wealthy  within  so 
short  time. 

Mary  and  Jack  were  going  to  wash.  It  was  Sunday, 
and  both  were  home.  They  had  forgotten  to  heat  the 
water,  but  that  was  too  trifling  a  matter  to  deter  them. 
The  results  of  their  efforts  would  not  have  pleased  exact- 
ing people.  Most  of  the  neighbors  were  too  busy  to  notice 
the  results.  There  were  some  who  pitied  the  man  who 
had  to  help  his  lazy  wife  wash  on  Sundays.  However, 
Jack  and  Mary  were  too  busy  to  know  either  their  neigh- 
bors or  their  opinions,  and  moved  on  in  quiet,  neither 
trammelled  by  the  neighbors'  standards  or  hurt  by  their 
opinions.  The  garments  that  hung  on  the  lines  in  that 
neighborhood  were  not  the  kind  that  arouse  the  enthusi- 
asm of  a  skilled  laundress;  none  lived  there.  Mary's 


180  THE   STORY   OF 

wash,  on  the  whole,  equalled  the  average  when  flung  to 
the  breeze. 

Their  first  disagreement  came  that  Sunday.  The 
cause — which  would  scrub  the  floor  ?  Jack  insisted  that 
he  was  the  one.  Mary  had  never  done  such  a  thing  and 
he  had,  for  Mattie  never  would.  It  ended  in  Jack's 
having  his  way,  and  binding  closer  to  him  in  bonds  of 
gratitude  the  wife  who  dearly  loved  him.  That  was 
months  ago. 

As  she  did  the  housework  that  first  day  Mary's  mind 
had  gone  over  the  months  since  she  had  married  Jack. 
For  the  first  time  she  realized  the  change  that  had  come 
in  her  life.  Now  Jack  must  not  do  the  housework,  for 
she  was  home  all  the  time.  This  new  life  must  be 
learned  step  by  step.  As  she  reviewed  the  results  of 
her  first  efforts  she  was  quite  proud  of  herself.  The 
fire  was  burning,  the  cabbage  and  potatoes  boiling 
hard  and  the  meat  in  the  oven.  She  had  never  seen 
meat  cooked  in  the  oven,  but  that  must  be  what  it  was 
for.  The  man  told  them  it  was  "a  ripping  baker,  that 
stove,"  so  it  must  be  right. 

She  would  go  and  see  Gretchen,  who  was  lonely.  How 
lovely  it  was  down  there!  The  floor  was  as  white 
as  the  sand  on  Coney  Island.  The  stove  like  a  black 
looking-glass.  How  did  Gretchen  do  it  ?  Hers  was  red. 
Gretchen  looked  so  sweet.  How  pretty  Gretchen's  dress 
was !  Mary  was  alive  at  once  to  the  difference  between 
the  draggled,  spotted  skirt  and  untidy  waist  she  wore 
and  Gretchen's  calico.  She  never  had  seen  a  calico 
dress.  She  had  seen  calico  wrappers,  but  never  a  dress 
fitted  close,  all  buttoned  up.  What  a  white  collar 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          181 

Gretchen  wore  about  her  neck !  She  would  like  a  dress 
like  that,  but  it  would  cost  money  to  have  it  made.  She 
wished  she  knew  how  to  sew.  That  white  apron  was  love- 
ly, even  that  would  make  her  own  dress  look  better.  Where 
did  Gretchen  get  it?  Her  admiration  wTas  so  frankly 
expressed  that  Gretchen  smiled  and  blushed.  Mary's 
eyes  wandered  from  Gretchen's  dress  to  what  she  was 
doing.  On  the  table  were  some  dainty  bits  of  lace  and 
embroidery  and  fine  white  goods,  in  her  lap  was  a  piece 
of  lovely  soft,  white  flannel  on  which  she  was  sewing. 

How  beautiful  it  was !  Could  she  ever  make  herself 
and  her  house  look  like  this?  It  was  more  than  the 
things.  There  was  something  else.  Slowly  the  pride  in 
her  efforts  that  day  left  her,  she  felt  so  helpless,  so  igno- 
rant, could  she  ever  learn? 

Mary  sat  in  the  rocker  swinging  softly.  "Sewing  you 
bring?"  queried  Gretchen  with  a  sympathetic  smile. 

"Sewing?"  Mary  blushed.  "I  don't  know  how,"  she 
answered.  A  look  of  wonder,  followed  by  a  puzzled 
expression,  came  into  Gretchen's  china-blue  eyes. 

"All  done.    I  shust  begin." 

"No ;  I  don't  know  how  to  sew.    I  never  did  sew." 

Gretchen  veiled  her  horror  as  best  she  could,  remain- 
ing silent.  A  strange  land  this,  where  a  woman  did  not 
know  how  to  sew.  The  little  American  wife  sitting 
opposite  rocked  back  and  forth  thinking  busily.  You 
could  buy  things  very  cheap,  everybody  said  so.  Yet 
here  was  Gretchen,  who  was  so  rich,  sewing  hard.  At 
last  Mary  spoke. 

"Everybody  says  yer  can  buy  things  as  cheap  as  yer 
can  make  them.  It  don't  pay  to  make  them." 


182  THE   STORY   OF 

"Nein  cheap  I"  exclaimed  Gretchen  in  a  rage.  "Mine 
child,  it  not  wear  cheap.  My  child  wear  what  I  make." 
Gretchen  was  almost  fierce.  After  a  moment  she  laid 
gently  in  Mary's  lap  two  or  three  garments,  the  sweet- 
est, daintiest,  Mary  had  ever  seen;  so  dainty  and  pure 
that  it  seemed  as  if  the  love  they  represented  had  en- 
tered into  the  texture  as  well  as  the  stitches.  Mary's 
pulses  beat  faster. 

"Will  you  show  me  how?"  she  breathed  rather  than 
spoke.  She  would  have  the  full  measure  of  a  woman's 
life,  this  girl  to  whom  it  was  just  unfolding.  The  two 
clasped  hands  and  beamed  on  each  other.  There  was  a 
language  of  the  heart  common  to  both,  and  they  used  it 
eloquently. 

Mary  went  upstairs.  As  she  approached  her  own  door 
there  was  a  strange  smell  of  burning  in  the  halls.  She 
opened  the  door.  The  stove  looked  cold.  Mary  took 
the  cover  off  the  pot ;  it  was  half  filled  with  a  burnt  mass 
that  bore  no  resemblance  to  the  cabbage  and  potatoes  she 
had  put  in  the  pot  to  cook.  The  meat  in  the  oven 
looked  as  it  did  when  she  put  it  in.  The  fire  was  out. 

Sitting  flat  on  the  floor,  Mary  resorted  to  a  woman's 
refuge  for  relief — tears.  The  door  opened  and  Jack 
came  in. 

"Oh,  Jack !  it  ain't  fair ;  I  don't  know  how." 

Jack,  the  lesson  of  love  is  fast  making  you  a  man.  A 
glance  revealed  the  full  measure  of  defeat  Eoughly 
patting  Mary  on  the  shoulder,  he  said: 

"Thank  God !  dere's  bologna.  I'm  hungry  as  a  horse." 
Mary  laughed  through  her  tears. 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          183 

Jack,  you  did  not  know  it,  but  you  put  your  home  on 
a  solid  foundation  that  hour. 

The  days  went  by,  each  bringing  success  or  failure,  as 
experience  or  ignorance  governed  Mary's  housekeeping 
plans. 

Gretchen  lived  differently.  Had  more  money  to  spend 
on  her  table;  ate  things  that  Jack  or  Mary  had  never 
heard  of,  so  Mary  gained  little  help  in  cooking.  The 
standard  of  cleanliness  that  Gretchen  had  established  in 
Mary's  mind  was  being  slowly  and  painfully  attained. 
Mary  battled  against  the  disposition  to  leave  the  bed 
unmade  until  late  in  the  day,  or  not  made  over  at  all, 
because  she  learned  to  like  the  appearance  of  the  bed- 
room with  the  bed  made.  She  bought  a  washstand,  and 
what  was  a  far  greater  advance,  learned  to  use  it,  and  re- 
sent the  combing  of  hair  in  the  living  room.  It  was  a 
hard  fight  against  tradition,  custom,  weariness,  but  her 
heart  was  in  her  efforts.  If  she  worked  better  in  the 
shop  than  any  of  the  girls,  she  must  work  better  out  of 
it.  Besides,  she  liked  order  and  cleanliness,  and  so  did 
Jack.  Mary  bought  a  calico  wrapper  and  a  white  apron. 
The  first  time  she  put  it  on  was  when  her  work  was  all 
done  and  the  supper  was  almost  ready.  Nervously  she 
began  dressing.  Never  when  getting  ready  for  a  party 
had  Mary  been  so  anxious.  The  tie  was  adjusted  under 
the  collar,  the  last  pat  given  to  her  hair,  the  bow  of  her 
apron  strings  carefully  arranged,  when  the  whistle  that 
always  made  her  heart  bound  with  joy  sounded  in  the 
hall.  Blushing  and  smiling,  Mary  faced  the  door. 

Jack  stopped.     A  look  she  could  not  mistake  was 


184  THE   STORY   OF 

flashed  by  Jack's  eyes,  "Yer  beat  the  band/'  and  Jack 
bowed  low. 

Jack  could  not  spell  art;  it's  doubtful  if  you  ever 
heard  the  word,  but  you  are  past  master  in  the  art  of 
being  a  husband  that  made  the  woman  you  won  for  your 
wife  pity  all  other  women. 

Gretchen  and  Mary  went  shopping.  The  sum  spent 
did  not  attract  the  attention  of  the  cashier  of  the  great 
department  store  at  the  close  of  the  day's  sales;  but  to 
Mary  and  Gretchen  the  results  changed  the  world's  his- 
tory. It  required  all  Gretchen's  determination  to  make 
Mary  use  a  pair  of  scissors  on  the  precious  goods. 
"Neiu,  de  mudder,  she  ist  de  von  to  do  it,"  insisted 
Gretchen.  Trembling,  Mary  for  the  first  time  in  her 
life  used  a  pair  of  scissors  to  cut  a  garment.  For  the 
first  time  in  her  life  she  saw  a  pattern,  and  learned  its 
use.  Making  dolls'  clothes  had  played  no  part  in  Mary's 
education.  Her  dolls,  the  few  she  had  owned,  came  ar- 
rayed as  Solomon  in  all  the  glory  of  his  best  clothes, 
differing  in  that  their  clothes  were  sewed  fast  to  their 
bodies.  When  the  clothes  wore  off,  or  were  torn  off  in 
neighborhood  struggles,  any  piece  of  cloth  tied  with  a 
string  or  a  ribbon  replaced  them.  Mary  always  found 
the  dolls  more  interesting  when  this  stage  was  reached, 
because  of  the  possibility  of  change  in  the  appearance  of 
these  mutilated  babies.  Machines,  advertisements,  the 
excitement  of  finding  work  and  increasing  the  number 
of  wage-earning  possibilities,  supplanted  dolls  in  Mary's 
life  at  twelve  years  of  age.  It  required  all  Gretchen's 
patience  and  interest  to  prevent  another  record  of  waste 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          185 

in  Mar/s  life.  Fingers  and  brains  trained  to  produce 
"bargains"  are  not  ready  to  meet  the  demand  of  a 
mother's  heart  when  the  future  is  a  holy  mystery 
enfolded  in  the  incense  that  proves  the  divinity  and 
sacredness  of  a  mother's  love.  Mary  could  not  satisfy 
her  ideals  of  the  service  she  would  render.  It  is  a  cruel 
test  of  human  endurance  when  there  is  neither  training 
nor  knowledge  to  guide  in  the  struggle  to  reach  an  ideal. 
Love  was  the  incentive,  and  patience  the  guide,  through 
the  period  of  learning. 

When  Mary  laid  the  first  finished  garment  shyly  on 
Jack's  knee,  he  could  not  speak.  The  future  at  times 
filled  him  with  terror.  He  had  vague  ideas  that  repre- 
sented possibilities  that  made  Mary  a  martyr  before 
whom  he  should  kneel  asking  pardon.  But  when  Mary 
came  shyly  to  him,  a  soft,  happy  light  of  expecting  love 
in  her  eyes  to  ask  his  approval  for  what  she  was  doing 
for  their  child,  he  dropped  his  head  on  her  shoulder, 
she  felt  his  tears.  Eaising  his  head  with  her  hands,  and 
looking  in  his  eyes,  she  whispered,  "Jack,  I'm  very  glad ; 
I  always  wanted  one  of  my  own."  And  then  her  head 
nestled  in  Jack's  neck. 


CHAPTEE  VIII. 

THEIR  SOCIAL  LIFE. 

MARY  had  met  Julia  often  since  that  first  day.  The 
resentment  aroused  by  Julia's  misplaced  sympathy  gave 
way  to  pity.  The  girl  had  been  so  dominant,  so  happy 
in  her  little  girlish  triumphs,  the  woman  was  so  un- 
happy, so  aimless,  so  crushed,  that  Mary  out  of  her  own 
wealth  of  happiness  and  comfort,  reached  out  to  her,  not 
knowing  why  she  did.  Julia's  repeated  invitations  to 
"come  and  see  me,"  not  having  been  accepted  or  returned 
in  kind,  she  began  passing  Mary  with  a  sullen  bow.  Her 
clothes  grew  more  shabby,  and  her  whole  appearance 
more  neglected  as  the  weeks  passed. 

Mary  at  last  was  the  owner  of  a  calico  dress,  buttoning 
close  to  the  neck,  and  a  pretty  linen  collar.  The  dress 
was  the  work  of  her  own  hands.  The  first  time  she  wore 
it  on  the  street  more  than  one  person  looked  after  the 
dainty  appearing,  extremely  young  woman  with  coils  of 
bronze  brown  hair ;  among  the  number  was  Julia.  Mary 
had  turned  to  look  after  her  and  their  eyes  met.  The 
scowl  on  Julia's  face  disappeared  before  the  expression 
in  Mary's  eyes.  Both  turned,  greeting  each  other  with  a 
cordial  "Good-morning,"  comments  on  the  baby  ended 
in  an  invitation  to  Julia  to  "come  and  see  me,"  from 
Mary.  When  Mary  gave  her  address  Julia  looked  sur- 
prised, for  it  was  one  of  the  houses  in  the  neighbor- 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          187 

hood  that  was  counted  aristocratic.  The  most  casual 
observer  would  note  its  distinction  from  other  houses  in 
the  neighborhood.  Jacob  had  many  prosperous  friends 
in  the  city  with  whom  he  and  Gretchen  exchanged 
calls.  The  improvements  he  saw  in  their  houses  that 
he  could  put  in  his  own  house  he  imitated;  long 
since  his  kitchen  had  been  covered  with  an  oilcloth,  and 
was  a  dining-room;  the  back  hall-bedroom  had  become 
the  kitchen,  having  a  gas  stove.  Jacob  and  Jack 
often  planned  for  the  time  when  Jack  would  have  the 
whole  floor  above  with  the  same  alterations.  The 
house  stood  apart  from  its  neighbors,  and  the  people 
who  lived  in  it  were  as  far  removed.  It  was  this  that 
phanged  Julia's  mental  attitude  toward  Mary  at  once. 
She  recognized  a  social  distinction.  Julia  remembered 
Mary  as  one  of  the  best  workers,  who  had  the  least  and 
poorest  clothes  of  all  the  girls  in  the  shop.  That  Mary 
was  the  victim  of  a  home  disgraced  by  a  drunken  mother 
she  knew  vaguely.  She  also  remembered  her  as  a  girl 
who  commanded  respect  enough  to  have  the  cause  of  her 
disgrace  not  talked  about.  Now  Mary  had  passed  Julia 
on  the  social  ladder,  an  unexpected  turn  of  fortune's 
wheel,  and  Julia  was  at  once  in  the  frame  of  mind  to  be 
flattered  by  the  extension  of  Mary's  indefinite  "come  and 
see  me." 

Julia  appeared  one  morning  at  Mary's,  soon  after  the 
fateful  meeting  in  the  street.  Gretchen  sat  by  the  win- 
dow sewing.  When  she  saw  the  slovenly  mother  and 
baby,  a  look  of  repugnance  passed  over  her  face;  she 
turned  to  the  window.  The  contrast  between  the  two 
women  struck  Mary  forcibly.  For  the  first  time  she 


188  THE  STORY  OF 

recognized  a  law  of  social  distinctions :  she  realized  that 
Gretchen  and  Julia  could  have  nothing  in  common.  She 
did  not  know  why  she  felt  ashamed  of  Julia,  nor  why  she 
was  relieved  when  Gretchen  left  soon  after  her  new 
guests  appeared. 

As  Gretchen  left  the  room,  Julia  winked,  and,  as  the 
door  closed,  said  with  a  coarse  laugh  that  disturbed 
Mary,  "Same  boat  ye're  both  in.  It's  fine.  Never  a 
minute  to  yerself."  This  expression  of  Julia's  senti- 
ments for  that  future  to  which  Gretchen  looked  forward 
with  happy  impatience,  and  Mary  with  less  fear  and  hap- 
pier anticipations  each  day,  annoyed  Mary.  Her  powers 
of  expression  were  too  limited  to  enable  her  to  en- 
lighten Julia  as  to  the  different  future  she  saw;  her 
vocabulary  had  not  grown  with  her  soul.  She  hastily 
introduced  the  shop  gossip  the  girls  had  brought  the 
night  before — change  of  "forelady;"  of  girls;  the  news 
as  to  work  and  wages;  whose  "steadies"  had  changed, 
and  where  they  now  were  permanent ;  who  had  given  her 
"steady"  the  "bounce,"  and  who  was  substituted  in  his 
place. 

Julia's  interest  flagged,  and  she  grew  restless.  She 
looked  about  inquisitively,  and  finally  boldly.  At  last, 
with  the  daring  that  gave  her  temporary  leadership  in 
the  days  of  the  shop,  she  said :  "I've  got  the  price  of  a 
pint.  If  you'll  look  after  the  baby,  I'll  go  after  it.  Give 
me  a  pail."  When  Mary  realized  what  Julia  meant,  she 
stood  up  in  a  white  heat.  "There'll  never  be  a  drop  of 
the  stuff  come  into  my  house.  I'm  glad  to  see  yer, 
Julia,  but  don't  yer  never  say  that  in  my  house  again." 
"What  blasted  airs !"  rang  out  Julia's  response,  with  a 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          189 

scornful  laugh.  "Yer'll  come  to  it.  I  didn't  believe  I'd 
ever  want  it.  But  wait,  wait  till  it's  nothin'  but  a  cryin' 
young  one,  and  a  man  what's  always  half-seas  over, 
ready,  yes" — here  her  voice  rose  to  a  shriek — "yes,  ready 
to  cuff  yer  as  he  would  a  dog;  who  hands  yer  grudgin' 
a  quarter  each  day,  and  then  swears  because  yer  haven't 
the  supper  ready  yer  didn't  have  the  money  to  buy. 
Wait.  It's  comin';  it  always  does.  Every  man  in  our 
house  does  it.  They  carried  Mrs.  Mulgrove  to  Bellevue 
last  night.  A  cut  on  her  head,  and  God  knows  how 
much  worse.  She's  been  married  ten  years.  The  Chil- 
dren's Society  took  her  children  this  morning.  We're 
comin'  to  it,  both  of  us.  The  men  are  all  alike.  Yer'll 
be  glad  ter  forget."  Julia  rose,  her  tears  falling  on  the 
dress  of  the  baby  she  held  loosely  in  her  arms — tears  for 
her  own  life,  the  life  of  all  women.  She  had  to  judge 
the  world  as  she  knew  it.  Her  experience  offered  con- 
trasts in  degrees,  not  kind. 

The  misery  in  the  woman's  face  drowned  Mary's 
anger  at  the  charge  made  against  her  own  future,  at  the 
charge  made  against  Jack.  She  crossed  the  room,  took 
the  baby  from  its  mother's  arms,  and  laid  it  on  the  bed. 
Coming  back,  she  put  her  hand  on  Julia's  shoulder  and 
forced  her  gently  back  into  the  chair. 

"  'Tain't  no  use,  Mary,"  Julia  went  on.  "I  saw  me 
own  mother.  Didn't  she  do  everything  she  could 
when  she  was  sober,  and  she  was  often  sober  even 
at  the  last?  What  good  was  it?  Didn't  me  father 
beat  her  black  and  blue?  Didn't  he  often  spind  every 
cint  between  Saturday  night  and  Monday  morning? 
Weren't  we  often  put  out  in  spite  of  all  we  could  do? 


190  THE  STORY  OF 

There's  hardly  a  house  between  here  and  the  Bowery 
I've  not  lived  in.  What  comfort  did  me  mother  get 
'cept  when  she  didn't  care  what  'came  of  her  ?  •  Didn't 
I  work  early  and  late  and  bring  every  cint  home,  till  I 
saw  'twas  no  use?  Then  1  kept  it  and  bought  clothes 
and  went  on  larks.  Don't  I  know  how  me  mother  cried, 
and  vowed  she'd  never  touch  it,  and  the  next  night  I'd 
hunt  her  up  and  drag  her  home,  and  stand  over  her  and 
take  the  blows  me  father  meant  for  her  ?"  She  lowered 
her  voice  to  a  whisper:  "Do  yer  know  what  I  think? 
If  the  thruth  was  known,  my  father  would  be  in  Sing 
Sing,  or  worse.  There  were  marks  on  me  mother  the 
undertaker  saw.  Yer  remember  she  died  sudden.  She 
wasn't  home  when  I  got  home  from  work  the  night  before 
she  died.  I  went  out  wid  Charlie,  and  left  me  father 
sittin'  there.  When  I  got  home,  me  mother  was  on  the 
bed.  In  the  mornin'  she  was  dead.  Me  father  never 
looked  me  in  the  eye.  I've  always  mistrusted.  For  God's 
sake,  don't  tell,"  Julia  added  in  a  frightened  whisper.  "I 
don't  know  where  he  is,  and  I  don't  want  ter  know.  He 
drove  me  mother  to  drink,  and  I'm  f  ollerin'  her."  Julia 
leaned  forward  on  the  table,  shaking  with  the  sobs  that 
told  her  hopelessness  and  misery. 

"Look  at  yer  own  mother,"  she  said,  raising  her  head. 

"Julia,  me  father  never  struck  me  mother,  and  he 
never  drank  a  drop.  I've  seen  him  hold  her  hands  to 
keep  her  from  strikin'  him.  Julia,  I  don't  know  why  she 
does  it.  I  don't  remember  when  she  didn't.  When  I 
was  a  little  thing,  she'd  beat  me  when  I  wouldn't  go  after 
it.  'Tisn't  always  the  men.  Some  men  is  good.  Me 
father  is.  Jack  is,,  Jacob  is.  All  men  don't  beat  their 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          191 

wives.  Julia,  do  yer  try  ?  We  ain't  either  of  us  had  no 
chance ;  we  don't  know  how  to  do  things.  How  could  we 
learn?  Our  mothers  didn't  know  how.  Julia,  drink 
don't  make  it  better."  Both  were  crying.  "The  men 
work  hard,  Julia.  Their  homes  ought  ter  be  right.  I 
don't  know  much,  but  I'll  help  yer.  Come,  see  if  it 
don't  make  a  difference." 

Mary  took  the  baby  from  the  bed.  Her  determination 
compelled  Julia  to  follow. 

What  a  home  that  was  at  the  top  of  the  house !  Noth- 
ing was  clean  or  in  place.  Two  chairs  were  broken. 
Julia  followed  Mary's  glance.  "Yes,  he  struck  me  wid 
one  the  week  before  the  baby  was  born,  because  I  asked 
him  for  a  dollar  to  buy  things.  The  other  I  struck  him 
wid  last  night  when  he  called  me  a  name  he  knew  was 
a  lie.  The  marks  are  on  him  to-day." 

"Oh,  Julia,"  moaned  Mary,  "  'tis  worse  than  his 
strikin'  you." 

"Is  it?  Well,  I  don't  think  so.  'Twill  teach  him  I'm 
no  fool." 

"Come,  Julia.  Put  the  baby  down ;  he's  asleep.  We'll 
clean  up.  He'll  see  the  difference  when  he  comes  home. 
Not  having  a  baby  to  take  care  of  makes  it  easier  to 
keep  things  right,"  commented  Mary,  as  if  to  make  plain 
to  Julia  that  the  condition  of  her  home  was  not  making 
the  impression  its  contrast  to  her  own  justified. 

Julia  was  not  self -deceived.  "I  ain't  done  anything 
in  it  for  days ;  it  didn't  seem  no  use,"  was  Julia's  com- 
ment. 

Mary  kept  on  working  and  encouraging  the  thorough- 
ly discouraged  wife  and  mother.  It  was  an  inspiration 


192  THE  STORY    OF 

which  sent  Mary  out  for  a  loaf  of  fresh  bread  and  a 
bottle  of  milk.  The  two  ate  in  happy  companionship, 
and  came  into  a  communion  nothing  else  would  have, 
made  possible.  The  baby  was  washed  and  put  in  night- 
clothes  till  his  dress  was  dry  and  ironed;  the  mother 
had  no  dresses  that  could  be  washed,  but  determined  she 
would  have  one  like  Mary's  if  Charlie  would  give  her 
the  money.  Under  Mary's  directions  what  she  had  on 
was  mended.  Mary  spoke  of  the  way  Julia  used  to 
arrange  her  hair,  and  how  much  she  admired  it.  Julia, 
flattered,  soon  stood  transformed  before  her.  At  last 
mother,  child,  and  home  bore  some  resemblance  to  the 
ideal  of  that  Trinity  that  has  redeemed  man  from  per- 
dition since  the  beginning  of  time. 

There  was  one  thing  more  to  complete  the  beginning 
of  Julia's  recovery. 

"Julia,  yer  said  yer  had  the  price  of  a "  Mary 

hesitated. 

"Yes,  I  got  fifteen  cents.  I  got  a  pint  this  morning," 
she  added,  desperately. 

"It  will  buy  some  meat  and  an  onion.  Have  yer 
potatoes  ?" 

"Three,"  sullenly  answered  Julia. 

"Come,  try  once.  I'll  mind  the  baby,  you  get  the 
things,"  coaxed  Mary. 

Julia  hurried  away,  glad  of  the  freedom  from  the 
little  baby,  whose  presence,  rather  than  weight,  made  it 
a  burden. 

It  was  a  revelation  to  Julia  that  the  better  part  of  an 
afternoon  could  be  used  happily  in  getting  supper  for  a 
husband.  Something  to  do  would  mean  life  recovered  to 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          193 

this  girl  full  of  energy  but  without  knowledge  to  apply 
it  to  make  her  own  life  more  bearable. 

Mary  did  not  leave  until  the  table  was  set  orderly, 
though  there  was  no  cover  on  it.  With  a  nice  tact,  born 
of  her  great  sympathy,  she  decided  to  have  Julia  to  a 
meal  and  use  her  tablecloth  as  an  object  lesson. 

Mary  hurried  away  to  prepare  Jack's  dinner.  Her 
heart  was  on  fire  with  love ;  love  so  strong  and  great  that 
it  reached  out  to  bring  all  to  the  heights  on  which  it 
had  placed  her. 

Mary  had  never  thought  of  prayer  as  a  personal  ex- 
pression of  feeling,  or  that  home  was  a  place  of  prayer. 
She  had  drifted  far  from  her  childhood  teachings,  and 
even  then  what  she  learned  was  for  a  rite  and  not  for 
daily  use.  Her  father  was  not  of  her  mother's  church, 
and  readily  aided  Mary's  forgetting  its  every  service. 
Sometimes,  when  alone,  Mary  remembered  the  candles 
before  the  statue  of  the  Virgin  in  Mrs.  Donohue's  bed- 
room. Again  she  saw  Mrs.  Donohue  kneeling  before 
it,  but  she  wondered  why.  Of  personal  relation  to  a 
God  who  would  hear  and  answer  prayer,  Mary  had 
no  conception.  The  church  had  lost  its  power  in  the 
old  ward  when  Mary  was  a  little  child;  it  had  grown 
poor  in  the  corps  of  workers.  It  is  no  wonder  the 
church  lost  track  of  the  lambs  who  did  not  follow  parents 
into  the  fold  and  that  they  drifted. 

In  spite  of  all,  Mary  stood  for  a  moment  with  beating 
heart  in  the  centre  of  her  home  bowed  with  gratitude  for 
all  the  good  that  had  come  to  her  life ;  she  did  not  pray, 
she  did  not  know  how  to  form  a  prayer ;  it  is  doubtful  if 
she  would  have  thought  it  right,  for  the  church  was  the 


194  THE  STORY  OP 

place  to  pray.  Her  heart  was  heavy  with  its  sense  of 
gratitude,  her  eyes  humid  with  the  intensity  of  her 
feelings.  She  loved  all  the  world,  pitying  all  in  it  be- 
cause they  did  not  have  all  she  had,  because  in  all  the 
world  there  was  only  one  woman  whom  Jack  loved. 

When  Julia's  husband  came  home  that  night — still 
raging  inwardly  at  the  jokes  the  marks  on  his  face  had 
called  out  from  his  shopmates,  yet  acknowledging  to 
himself  that  if  there  could  be  a  justification  for  what 
Julia  had  done  he  had  given  it — he  stood  still  in  the 
open  door.  The  smell  of  the  cooking  food,  the  waiting 
table,  the  woman  who  resembled  the  Julia  fast  becoming 
a  memory,  were  to  him  the  evidences  of  remorse  and 
fear.  Neither  spoke.  The  one  was  silent  because  his 
creed,  common  to  his  set,  was  that  he  must  not  lose  his 
resentment  too  quickly.  "She  must  be  taught  a  lesson/' 
was  his  mental  comment. 

The  other  was  silent  because,  under  all  her  coarse- 
ness, all  her  ignorance,  there  was  a  warm  womanly  heart, 
that  might  be  won  to  highest  service,  or  lost  and  the 
world  impoverished,  if  the  man  she  had  loved  and  might 
learn  to  love  again  did  not  accept  his  victory  and  her 
apology  in  the  spirit  she  offered  it.  The  crisis  of  her 
life  had  come,  and  she  knew  it.  Doubt  lasted  but  a 
moment. 

"Ye're  mighty  sorry  fer  the  blow  yer  give,  are  yer?" 
was  his  question  as  he  closed  the  door. 

Julia  held  herself  well  in  hand.  She  knew  their  life's 
battle  was  to  be  lost  or  won  then.  Looking  at  him 
steadily,  "As  sorry  as  yer  are  for  the  word  yer  said  last 
night/'  was  the  unexpectedly  quiet  reply. 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          195 

"Where's  the  kid  ?"  was  Charlie's  response. 

It  was  a  slender  wire,  the  first  strand  in  the  bridge 
that  crossed  the  chasm  in  their  lives,  but  it  was  a 
beginning. 

The  next  morning  Julia  came  early  to  see  Mary. 
There  was  a  shy  look  in  her  eyes,  and  she  carried  the 
baby  closely  in  her  arms.  She  said,  "Charlie  stayed 
home  all  the  evening,"  Then,  in  tones  of  awe,  "Mrs. 
Mulgrove  is  dead." 

The  spirit  of  helpfulness  that  saves  life  from  despera- 
tion among  the  poor  dominated  Mary.  The  knowledge 
she  gained,  through  experience  and  natural  ability  and 
Gretchen's  skill,  she  passed  on  with  enthusiasm  to  the 
less  richly  endowed  woman.  It  was  heart  rather  than 
head  that  was  Julia's  incentive  to  effort.  The  social 
atmosphere  of  the  house  in  which  she  lived  was  opposed 
to  the  effort  she  was  making  to  save  herself  and  her 
home.  Neighborly  exchange  and  hospitality  took  but 
one  form.  Pitchers  and  pails  were  going  and  coming 
constantly.  Not  to  bear  your  part  in  the  neighborly 
exchange  was  to  incur  the  ill  will  of  the  neighbors.  Dis- 
approval was  to  Julia  purgatory;  to  be  popular  her  one 
desire.  When  the  first  glow  of  novelty  had  worn  off, 
when  she  was  left  alone  to  attend  to  the  house  which 
had  not  yet  appealed  to  her  pride,  interrupted  by 
the  demands  of  a  fretful  baby,  the  battle  to  help  Julia 
was  far  more  severe  than  the  battle  to  win  her.  That 
first  victory  was  largely  impulse.  There  had  come 
from  it  such  experiences  as  taught  Julia  that  love  and 
happiness  were  birthrights  to  be  retained  only  by  con- 
stant struggle,  and  this  it  was  that  made  the  issue  doubt- 


196  THE   STORY   OF 

ful;  continued,  powerful  effort  had  not  been  a  part  of 
Julia's  training.  She  went  to  school  because  she  must, 
and  without  any  effort  or  design  on  her  part  was  pro- 
moted when  the  time  came.  At  eleven  she  went  to  work, 
drifting  from  shop  to  shop  as  the  current  carried 
her;  she  learned  how  to  do  a  part  of  many  things,  and 
nothing  thoroughly.  Not  even  her  pleasures  were  the 
result  of  direct  aim.  She  enjoyed  one  pleasure  as  much 
as  another ;  in  fact,  she  could  have  a  very  enjoyable  time 
walking  about  the  streets  and  standing  on  the  corners 
talking  with  other  girls  and  boys ;  she  was  pretty,  reck- 
less through  ignorance,  with  no  more  sense  of  responsi- 
bility than  a  bird.  Marriage  was  a  part  of  life's  process 
and  was  entered  into  happily  because  she  loved  the 
man  she  married,  whom  she  had  known  all  her  life. 

Charlie  recognized  the  change  in  his  home,  but  made 
no  comment;  his  response  was  to  remain  at  home  even- 
ing after  evening,  where  he  was  sought  by  the  men  he 
had  sought;  they  remained  when  he  refused  to  go  out 
with  them.  This  social  life  was  an  incentive  to  Julia 
and  a  powerful  factor  in  her  redemption.  The  table 
was  cleared  after  supper,  for  if  any  one  came  they  would 
want  to  play  cards.  Julia  learned  to  play  readily,  and 
when  needed  was  a  foe  to  be  reckoned  with,  a  partner  to 
be  welcomed ;  she  took  pride  in  her  ability  to  play  cards, 
and  it  provided  her  with  excitement  and  food  for  im- 
agination. 

Charlie  knew  that  he  had  a  share,  a  part  in  this  effort 
at  home  redemption.  He  did  not  know  what  it  was  or 
how  to  meet  it.  He  never  had  responded  to  the  vices 
of  his  environment.  His  father  was  a  quiet  man  of 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          197 

determined  views,  governed  by  a  deep  love  for  his  home, 
his  wife,  and  two  children;  he  had  been  a  porter  in  a 
commission  house  since  a  mere  lad,  growing  up  with  the 
business  to  which  he  was  as  devoted  as  either  of  the 
partners  who  had  followed  their  fathers,  and  whom  he 
had  known  as  boys.  He  never  had  approved  of  their  way 
of  branching  out  and  extending  the  business.  He  had 
spent  as  many  sleepless  nights  and  hours  of  anxiety  as 
they  had  during  the  period  of  experiment  which  had 
proved  a  period  of  development;  he  saw  that  while  he 
had  a  position  of  security,  business  methods  had  so 
changed  that  such  a  relation  as  he  held  could  not  be  held 
under  the  new  system.  His  boy  must  have  a  trade.  Long 
before  the  boy  left  school  he  had  made  arrangements  to 
that  end  with  a  man  who  began  at  the  bottom  as  he  had, 
but  did  not  stay  there.  The  old  friendship  remained, 
and  the  son  Charlie  profited  by  it. 

Charlie's  impulses  were  those  inherited  from  his 
father  and  nurtured  in  an  orderly  home,  governed  by 
strong  religious  habits.  Charlie  knew  that  on  his  way  to 
work  his  father  stopped  at  early  mass  every  morning; 
that  no  day  passed  that  did  not  find  his  mother  in  the 
church  for  an  interval  of  time.  While  neither  Charlie 
nor  his  sister  held  to  this  observance  of  church  duty,  they 
were  above  the  petty  vices  that  made  their  companions 
easy  victims.  This  very  difference  gave  them  a  social 
position  that  made  their  presence  desirable  at  all  the 
social  functions  in  the  neighborhood.  Besides,  Charlie 
always  had  money ;  his  father  exacted  board,  but  let  him 
use  his  money  as  he  would.  His  common  sense  in  its 
use  made  a  leader  to  be  desired.  He  never  "went  broke," 


198  THE   STORY   OF 

and  was  always  willing  to  help  a  friend  who  met  his 
obligations.  For  Charlie's  home  this  habit  was  un- 
fortunate. After  his  marriage  his  willingness  to  help 
a  friend  was  the  reason  his  home  was  so  barren,  his 
wife's  demands  disregarded,  and,  after  a  time,  resented. 
He  had  no  conception  of  sharing  with  his  home.  His 
father  had  doled  out  money  to  his  mother,  who  never 
demanded  more  than  she  received;  she  was  a  quiet 
woman  who  never  went  out  except  to  church,  kept  away 
from  her  neighbors,  and  so  carried  herself  toward  them 
as  to  keep  them  from  any  attempt  at  neighborly  ex- 
change. The  mother  was  as  much  a  part  of  Charlie's 
home  as  the  necessary  furniture.  When  she  died  just 
before  Charlie  was  married  a  great  void  was  created  that 
revealed  to  husband  and  son  what  she  was.  They  were 
homeless,  though  no  change  had  been  made  in  their 
income  by  her  death.  Charlie's  sister  had  married  a 
bookkeeper  in  a  bank,  the  son  of  a  former  neighbor,  and 
lived  uptown  in  a  pretentious  flat.  He  nor  his  wife,  in 
their  new  world,  ever  acknowledged  any  acquaintance 
with  the  East  Side.  This  son-in-law  was  quite  willing 
to  take  his  father-in-law,  with  his  snug  bank  account, 
into  his  home,  but  he  would  not  have  Charlie. 

Charlie  settled  this  problem  by  marrying  Julia,  whose 
gay,  fun-loving  nature  had  always  attracted  him. 

Her  entire  failure  as  a  home-maker,  her  ignorance 
of  how  to  manage  money,  aroused  in  him  a  certain  con- 
tempt, while  her  easily  acquired  habit  of  beer  drinking 
aroused  anger  and  resentment  which  not  even  the  birth 
of  his  baby  lessened.  The  baby  was  feeble  and  unat- 
tractive, and  for  this  he  blamed  Julia,  He  would  have 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          199 

left  Julia  if  it  had  not  been  for  the  baby.  Matters  had 
reached  a  crisis  when  Mary  and  Julia  met  that  morning 
on  Grand  Street. 

Even  though  the  money  was  daily  doled  out  for  food 
to  the  mother,  pennies  were  now  and  then  put  in  a  sugar 
bowl  on  the  top  shelf  to  buy  things  for  the  baby ;  he  was 
slowly  coming  into  his  share  of  the  home  and  his  share 
of  personal  prominence.  He  at  least  had  ceased  to  be  a 
burden,  and  the  little  smile  showed  his  consciousness  of 
the  change  in  a  loving  dependence  and  intelligent  expres- 
sion of  his  love  for  his  mother;  he  had  not  yet  become 
interesting  to  his  father. 

One  Sunday  morning  Charlie  discovered  that  Julia 
had  mended  the  two  broken  chairs  with  a  cord.  At  once 
they  became  a  reproach.  He  made  a  resolve  to  destroy 
them  and  buy  new,  and  what  promised  far  more  of 
manhood,  that  never  again  could  he  be  driven  to  the 
point  of  anger  that  would  make  him  strike  his  wife. 
"I'll  leave  her  if  we  can't  live  together  without  that," 
was  his  determination.  He  blushed  every  time  he  looked 
at  the  chairs  so  symbolic  of  Julia's  unaided  efforts 
to  improve  their  home.  The  baby  was  on  the  floor,  and 
at  this  moment  rolled  over  and  bumped  his  head.  Julia 
caught  him  up,  pitied  and  cooed  over  him,  kissing  the 
place  where  his  head  had  struck.  As  she  sat  in  the  chair 
holding  the  child,  her  face  full  of  pity  and  tenderness, 
she  looked  at  Charlie  as  if  he  too  shared  in  her  feeling 
for  the  child's  momentary  pain.  A  sense  of  protecting 
love  swept  through  the  man's  heart  for  the  two  whose 
life  destiny  he  controlled,  that  he  never  knew  before, 
and  his  expression  showed  it.  Julia's  eyes  dropped,  her 


200  THE   STORY   OF 

lip  quivered,  and  she  held  the  baby  more  closely  to  her 
heart.  What,  if  after  all,  her  happiness  was  to  come 
through  this  little  frail  body  whose  demands  had  been 
her  excuse  for  her  failures ! 

Charlie  had  been  saving  money.  He  had  it  now.  He 
had  been  with  Julia  to  see  Jack  and  Mary  often.  He 
envied  them  the  things  they  had  gathered  about  them. 
Suddenly  he  realized  he  might  have  them.  The  only 
reason  he  had  not  was  because  he  had  not  thought  of  his 
home  as  an  outlet  for  his  accumulated  wages.  He  would 
not  lend  money ;  he  would  use  it  for  his  own. 

"If  you  took  the  kid  to  Mary's,  don't  you  think  she'd 
keep  it  for  a  little  while,  and  you  and  me  could  go  out 
to-morrow  night  ?" 

Julia  was  dumb  with  surprise.  Charlie  had  not  asked 
her  to  go  out  since  before  the  baby  was  born. 

"Yes,  of  course,"  she  almost  stammered. 

"Let's  take  him  round." 

Monday  evening  early  the  baby  was  wrapped  in  a 
shawl  and  placed  on  the  bed  in  the  bedroom  at  Jack's. 
There  was  a  whispered  conversation  in  the  bedroom 
where  Mary  had  followed  Julia,  who  appeared  in  a  cape 
and  hat  that  belonged  to  Mary.  For  a  moment  Charlie 
was  angry,  and  then  he  blushed;  the  expression  in  his 
eyes  told  Julia  what  he  felt,  but  she  was  helpless.  She 
could  go  in  the  street  alone  without  a  hat,  but  not  with 
Charlie.  What  would  the  men  think  to  see  Charlie  all 
dressed  up  and  she  looking  so  shabby  ? 

When  Charlie  reached  Grand  Street,  he  said  gruffly, 
"Where  is  this  place  you  buy  hats  and  capes  ?" 

"Why,  Charlie,  have  you  money  to  buy  a  hat?" 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          201 

He  did  not  speak,  but  walked  on.  His  mind  was  in  a 
tumult ;  he  had  suddenly  lost  his  bearings.  The  fog  had 
risen.  He  had  married  Julia,  one  of  the  best-dressed 
girls  in  the  ward;  he  had  been  attracted  to  her  at  first 
because  she  was  always  so  well-dressed.  After  he  married 
her  he  had  been  angry  and  resentful  because  she  looke^ 
shabby  and  careless;  her  dresses  were  spotted,  looked 
different ;  she  looked  different.  No  wonder !  He  saw 
it  all  now.  She  could  not  earn  the  money  to  buy  the 
things  that  had  attracted  his  attention;  she  could  not 
earn  them  and  take  care  of  his  home  and  his  child,  and 
he  had  never  given  her  any  money  to  buy  clothes.  The 
self-pity  that  had  made  Julia's  failures  the  more  lumi- 
nous fell  away,  and  Charlie  stood  revealed  to  himself. 
He  saw  his  brutal,  if  unintentional,  selfishness  and  bit- 
terly repented. 

Julia  was  walking  more  slowly.  To  cover  his  em- 
barrassment, Charlie  said  gruffly,  "I  won't  never  sell 
hats  for  a  livin',  they  ain't  enough  stores  to  prove  people 
want  them." 

"There's  one  right  here,  a  little  way  back,"  Julia  felt 
timid  and  reluctant,  it  was  the  first  time  that  her  wants 
had  been  supplied  in  many  years,  except  by  the  earnings 
of  her  own  hands. 

"Why,  why  didn't  yer  tell  me?"  Charlie  swept  the 
block  with  his  glance,  and  discovered  the  place  where 
hats  were  sold. 

His  prosperous  appearance  led  the  clerk  to  show  hats 
intended  for  larger  incomes  and  fewer  needs.  Charlie 
would  have  bought  the  hat,  but  Julia  firmly  refused. 
Her  love  of  dress  was  harmonious,  a  hat  would  be  useless 


202  THE   STORY   OF 

without  other  things,  shoes,  for  instance,  and  a  jacket, 
and  a  dress.  But  even  with  her  better  knowledge  of 
values  her  wardrobe  was  a  matter  of  evolution.  Charlie 
was  less  willing  to  lend,  and  called  in  some  loans,  a 
process  which  proved  a  disturbance  in  his  social  rela- 
tions. The  baby  shared  in  the  division  of  income,  and 
the  home  was  soon  the  rival  of  Jack's  and  Mary's. 
Money  was  still  doled  daily  to  Julia  to  buy  food,  but  every 
Saturday  night  something  was  bought  for  the  home, 
or  the  baby,  or  Julia,  and  she  lost  her  resentment,  and 
learned  to  accept  a  dependence  that  was  an  opportunity 
to  show  thoughtful  love.  She  accepted  the  fact  of 
Charlie's  better  management.  Effort  after  effort  was 
made  to  find  rooms  in  a  better  house,  but  it  was  impos- 
sible. New  tenements  went  up  all  about  them,  but  the 
rents  were  higher  than  Charlie  would  pay,  yet  they 
were  rented  before  they  were  finished,  the  tenants  sub- 
letting rooms.  "I'll  have  my  home  to  myself,"  was 
Charlie's  reply  to  the  suggestion  that  they  increase  space 
by  the  same  method.  Fewer  houses  were  occupied  en- 
tirely by  Americans,  and  those  few  herded  together  held 
by  love  for  the  place  where  they  were  born;  or  they 
wished  to  be  close  to  fathers  and  mothers  too  old  to 
move ;  or  becauses  of  the  conservative  temperament  that 
hates  change;  or  they  were  held — as  Charlie  and  Julia 
were — by  the  social  environment  they  helped  to  create, 
and  in  which  they  had  a  recognized  place. 

The  "old  maid"  whose  barren  life  Mary  and  her 
home  had  enriched  found  in  Julia  and  her  home  full 
scope  for  her  missionary  spirit.  She  coaxed,  bullied,  and 
scolded  Julia  until  she  had  aroused  all  her  womanly  am- 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          203 

bition;  she  helped  to  make  a  home,  and  in  return  re- 
ceived the  gratitude  and  love  of  those  in  it.  Julia  dared 
to  refuse  neighborly  hospitalities;  she  dared  more — she 
refused  to  extend  them  in  kind,  and  to  scorn  the  charge 
of  meanness. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  LOWERING  OF  THE  CLOUD. 

MARY  was  to  the  "old  maid"  such  a  child  as  she  might 
have  had.  A  great  channel  of  love  was  opened  in  her 
life,  and  it  overflowed  until  it  enriched  the  lives  of  all 
about  her.  Her  place  had  changed  in  the  shop.  She 
heard  secrets,  troubles,  and  worries  of  those  who  needed 
what  she  so  gladly  gave.  Gretchen  had  taught  her  to 
use  her  hands,  and  they  were  at  the  service  of  others 
in  her  world.  The  "old  maid"  had  come  to  her 
own,  and  her  own  received  her.  Mary  and  Julia  were 
the  children  of  her  adoption — the  one  of  her  heart,  the 
other  of  her  head.  The  "girls"  found  in  Mary's  home 
new  standards,  and  to  Jack  they  gave  the  credit.  Each 
resolved  that  the  "he"  of  her  dreams  must  be  like  Jack. 
Mary  had  been  one  of  themselves,  but  now  she  was  dif- 
ferent. "Yes,"  quietly  commented  the  woman  who  had 
acquired  a  new  importance  among  them,  for  she  seemed 
to  have  a  new  power.  "Yes ;  Mary  is  different,  but  she 
always  was  different  from  the  rest  of  us." 

The  "old  maid,"  as  Bridget  McDonnell  was  known  in 
the  shop,  found  life  a  field  of  large  and  abounding  inter- 
ests. She  poured  out  a  wealth  of  love  on  Mary  and  her 
home,  of  which  even  Mary  was  unconscious.  Mary  re- 
turned in  a  measure  the  unbounded  love  of  this  lonely 
woman.  Her  own  efficiency  made  the  service  of  "Bridgy" 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          205 

unnecessary,  but  Julia's  home  was  an  untilled  field. 
Here  Bridget  exercised  her  activities  to  their  utmost 
limit.  She  found  an  outlet  for  the  pent-up  activities 
that  had  no  room  in  her  sister's  home.  Her  sister 
had  always  been  efficient  and  enterprising,  she  con- 
sidered Bridget's  failure  to  get  married  a  most  convinc- 
ing evidence  of  her  inefficiency;  because  of  this  she 
treated  her  with  scant  courtesy,  which  her  children  soon 
discovered  and  imitated.  During  their  infancy  as  each 
little  one  was  crowded  out  of  the  mother's  arms,  by  a 
new  baby,  it  received  love  and  slavish  attention  from  the 
aunt;  she  was  never  too  tired  to  give  it  care  at  night, 
and  counted  it  a  privilege  to  share  her  bed  with  each  one, 
making  no  demur  when  at  last  two  claimed  space  in  the 
bed  with  her.  But  the  time  came  when  the  father  was 
prosperous  enough  to  care  for  his  family  without  the 
board  money  so  welcome  from  the  sister-in-law  in  the 
early  days  of  his  married  life.  Bridget  was  as  innocent 
of  intrusion  as  she  had  been  of  unselfish  sharing,  and 
lived  on  in  happy  ignorance  of  being  in  the  way.  She 
loved  the  children,  and  by  her  self-denial  gave  them 
many  indulgences  their  worldly  wise  mother  would  not 
concede.  When  small,  these  nieces  and  nephews  re- 
turned Aunt  Bridget's  love;  as  they  grew  ambitious  her 
density  as  to  style,  her  interested  intrusion  into  the 
parlor  when  young  men  called,  aroused  friction,  an  en- 
tering wedge  of  separation,  whose  prophecy  this  devoted 
aunt  did  not  read.  These  young  people  despised  any- 
thing that  identified  them  with  a  past  that  was  not 
wholly  American.  The  younger  children  were  Edith  and 
Gladys,  as  opposed  to  the  Mary  and  Kate  of  the  older 


206  THE   STORY   OF 

girls,  now  Mazie  and  Kittle.  The  younger  boys  were 
Clarence  and  Floyd  as  opposed  to  the  Michael,  Patrick, 
and  James  of  the  older  boys.  Michael  became  Kiel,  and 
after  Mazie  entered  the  high  school  Patrick  was  offered 
every  inducement  to  answer  to  Patria,  but  he  spurned 
the  thought  until  he  advanced  in  the  social  scale  far 
enough  to  see  that  the  association  of  "Pat"  was  a  draw- 
back, then  he  assumed  a  middle  name,  and  was,  in  an 
astonishingly  short  time  known  as  Alfred,  signing  P. 
Alfred  to  the  few  notes  made  necessary  in  his  social  rela- 
tions. An  Aunt  Bridget  was  impossible  in  such  a  fam- 
ily, and  evoluted  to  Aunt  Bee,  a  tolerated  convenience 
who  was  not  expected  to  show  herself  to  the  friends  of 
her  young  relatives.  A  whole  house  was  occupied  now 
by  this  family.  No  more  space  was  assigned  to  the  in- 
dividual members,  for  the  thrifty  mother  rented  fur- 
nished rooms;  the  whole  house  was  rented  to  secure  a 
front  parlor  for  the  children,  now  far  in  advance  of  their 
immediate  relations.  The  mother  gladly  washed,  ironed, 
and  served,  glorying  in  the  refined  tastes  of  her 
daughters  who  despised  all  such  labor.  And  it  was  on 
this  rock  that  Aunt  Bee's  ship  was  wrecked,  throwing 
her,  at  thirty-eight,  a  mere  chip  on  the  great  ocean  of 
life.  She  had  centred  all  her  interests  in  this  family, 
never  reaching  beyond  it.  Her  love  and  interest  were 
the  cause  of  her  undoing.  She  protested  against  the 
ignorance  of  her  nieces  of  every  home  art,  and  strug- 
gled to  enforce  her  views  in  their  training,  especially 
after  they  became  school  teachers  and  had  leisure.  There 
was  but  one  end.  Aunt  Bee  had  to  find  another  home ; 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          207 

that  she  needed  more  than  shelter  her  nieces  never 
dreamed. 

She  now  lived  in  a  hall  bedroom  hired  from  an 
old  friend  of  her  mother's,  a  widow  with  three  daugh- 
ters; she  took  her  meals  at  cheap  restaurants  when  she 
did  not  take  them  in  her  room.  She  found  new  inter- 
ests as  she  was  forced  by  her  loneliness  to  seek  com- 
panionship. The  change  in  her  life  with  the  frankness 
of  her  nieces'  criticism  opened  her  eyes  to  the  passing 
of  the  years.  Her  hats  no  longer  resembled  those  of  the 
youngest  girls  in  the  shop.  There  was  no  friction  now, 
no  daily  adjusting  of  her  mind  to  little  hurts  and  large 
ones;  the  lines  of  her  face  smoothed.  The  girls  in  the 
shop  as  she  grew  older  and  sweeter,  confided  in  her; 
she  heard  their  secrets,  knew  their  worries,  and  helped 
them  bear  their  troubles.  Gretchen  proved  an  able 
teacher,  and  Bridget  passed  on  all  she  learned  to  others. 
The  "old  maid"  had  come  to  her  own,  and  her  own  re- 
ceived her.  The  years  were  not  many  before  "Bridgy" 
was  the  mother  in  spirit  of  a  large  family,  but  in  the 
centre  of  her  heart  she  cherished  Mary.  If  Mr.  Cahill 
chose,  he,  perhaps,  could  have  told  why. 

Great  was  Mary's  surprise  to  discover  one  Sunday 
evening  that  Bridgy  and  her  father  had  known  each 
other  "at  home."  But  no  thought  entered  her  head  of 
any  romance  connecting  the  two. 

"Mary,  did  you  notice  Bridgy  when  she  saw  yer 
father?" 

Mary  looked  at  Jack  in  surprise.    "No.    Why  ?" 

"By  the  way  she  blushed  and  her  eyes  shone,  and  the 
way  yer  father  looked  at  her  out  of  the  corner  of  his 


208  THE  STORY  OF 

eye,  I  think  they  were  more  than  children  when  they 
saw  each  other  last." 

Mary  looked  long  at  Jack,  then  leaning  forward,  she 
said  in  a  low,  earnest  tone,  "Yer  think  Bridgy  loved 
me  father?" 

"I  do/'  Jack  was  whistling,  Mary  went  close  to  him 
and  laying  her  cheek  against  his  coat,  she  said  broken- 
ly, "How  dreadful !  Think,  if  me  father  had  married 
Bridgy!" 

"Jerusalem!  Mary,  where  would  I  have  been?  I 
wouldn't  have  had  you."  The  expression  of  panic  on 
Jack's  face  set  Mary  laughing. 

"Why,  you  might  have  married  their  daughter." 

"Yes;  that's  all  right,  but  you  see  I  wanted  you  al- 
ways," and  Jack  put  his  arm  around  Mary,  who  had 
learned  as  he  had,  the  joy  of  expressing  their  love. 

"Jack,  we'll  be  better  than  ever  to  Bridgy ;  it  must  be 
awful,"  and  she  clung  lovingly  to  Jack's  arm. 

Few  of  Jack's  old  friends  were  invited  to  his  home. 
The  absence  of  the  pail  and  its  contents  still  further 
reduced  the  number  who  reappeared.  This  home  was 
never  crowded.  There  was  no  chance  of  Jack's  becoming 
a  political  leader  through  the  popularity  of  his  home. 
In  fact,  its  standards  shut  Jack  out  of  a  job  with  a  suc- 
cessful railroad  contractor.  He  had  no  "pull"  when  he 
found  himself  one  Saturday  night  discharged.  The  coal 
and  wood  merchant  had  been  in  the  hospital.  Jack  had 
saved  and  developed  his  route,  but  now  he  could  take 
care  of  it  alone.  Jack  was  out  of  a  job. 

His  wages  had  paid  the  rent  and  provided  food,  but 
not  one  penny  had  been  added  to  the  savings  Jacob  kept 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          209 

for  that  future  now  so  near.  When  Jack  faced  the  world, 
asking  it  for  work,  he  had  nothing  to  offer  but  muscle, 
good  nature,  honesty,  and  a  passionate  desire  to  keep  a 
home  for  the  woman  he  loved,  who  would  soon  become 
the  mother  of  his  child. 

Monday  morning  Jack  went  out  confident  that  work 
was  waiting  for  him.  The  world  was  deaf  to  his  call, 
dumb  to  his  questionings,  but  his  hope  and  courage  gave 
it  a  thousand  voices  responding  to  his  demand. 

Mary  and  Jack  had  no  theories  of  life.  Had  the  word 
ambition  been  used  in  their  presence,  they  would  not 
have  understood.  Life  to  them  meant  having  a  "job," 
paying  rent,  and  getting  food.  When  there  was  an  im- 
perative necessity,  as  at  the  present  time,  there  was  one 
more  object — the  saving  of  enough  money  to  meet  that 
necessity.  It  was  this  last  object  which  kept  Mary  at 
work  at  the  shop  for  long,  weary  weeks.  Perhaps  it  was 
this  that  would  be  accepted  as  the  evidence  by  her  friends 
that  Mary  was  "different"  from  other  girls.  Many  things 
were  needed  in  the  home,  where  as  yet  the  positive  neces- 
sities alone  were  considered.  Mary  would  have  felt  like 
a  thief  to  have  taken  a  penny  from  the  fund  intrusted 
to  Jacob;  that  was  a  security  against  the  future.  To 
Jack  it  was  as  though  they  were  penniless  except  for  his 
own  wages,  so  thoroughly  was  it  settled  in  his  mind  to 
whom  this  money  belonged,  as  well  as  for  what  it  was 
intended. 

Monday  morning,  after  his  discharge,  Jack  started  out 
to  find  work.  He  whistled  as  he  ran  down  the  stairs. 
Had  he  contrasted  the  present  with  the  past,  he  would 
have  remembered  that  a  few  months  ago,  if  he  had  found 


210  THE   STORY   OF 

himself  out  of  work  with  a  balance  of  five  dollars  and  a 
quarter,  the  sum  Mary  had  in  her  purse,  he  would  have 
sauntered  down  to  the  docks,  stood  around  with  the 
"boys;"  he  would  have  had  special  "feeds."  Certainly, 
with  that  amount  of  capital,  to  worry  about  finding  work 
would  have  been  foolish.  Time  enough  to  "hustle"  for  a 
"job"  "when  yer  can't  hear  the  chink  in  yer  pocket," 
would  have  expressed  Jack's  philosophy.  Hope  was  now 
the  motive  power  and  love  the  driver  that  sent  Jack,  with 
his  hat  tipped  at  the  angle  that  indicated  careless  ease, 
out  into  the  sunshine  of  that  early  morning  to  "hustle 
for  a  job."  The  world  was  scarcely  awake  when  Jack 
turned  toward  the  west. 

Like  every  other  worker,  Jack  had  established  business 
relations  with  certain  people  in  certain  localities.  He 
was  known  in  Washington  Market,  and  among  the  men 
who  helped  provision  the  great  city  from  that  centre. 
This  morning  there  was  little  stock  on  hand,  few  of  the 
men  were  at  their  usual  stands,  clerks  were  acting  for 
the  proprietors  who  had  gone  on  vacations  or  were  not 
coming  down  early  during  this  dull  season.  Orders  were 
being  shipped  out  of  town.  The  home  market  was 
closed.  Jack  felt  and  saw  the  paralysis,  and  a  cloud  ap- 
peared on  his  mental  horizon.  Up  and  down  he  went, 
between  the  stands,  among  the  wagons  outside  the 
market,  into  the  stores,  along  the  street,  but  the  answer 
was  the  same  everywhere.  The  sun  rose  higher,  doors 
were  closed,  and  into  new  fields  Jack's  weary  feet  car- 
ried him.  He  must  have  work.  There  was  the  rent  and 
food,  and  Mary  must  not  worry.  Jack's  throat  was  dry, 
he  was  faint,  but  the  search  went  on  with  unabated 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          211 

energy.  Night  came.  Jack  did  not  whistle  until  he 
reached  the  foot  of  the  last  flight  of  stairs.  When  he 
opened  the  door,  Mary  did  not  ask  any  questions.  Jack's 
eyes  answered  her  mental  question.  Jack's  first  day  out 
of  work  passed. 

The  days  followed  each  other  until  they  counted  weeks. 
The  hours  brought  different  experiences,  due  to  the 
different  temperaments  of  the  men  Jack  asked  for  work, 
but  the  result  of  each  day's  experience  was  the  same — 
no  work.  At  the  end  of  two  weeks  the  first  demand  was 
made  on  the  sacred  fund,  and  the  lines  of  care  appeared 
in  Mary's  face.  Hope  was  tottering,  but  faith  was 
strong.  The  visitors  had  dropped  off.  The  cloud 
dimmed  the  sunshine  that  had  made  the  home  so  attrac- 
tive. The  "old  maid"  increased  her  attentions,  and 
found  reasons  for  coming  early  and  late. 

Every  evening  she  appeared.  The  days  dragged  their 
length  till  she  could  hear  the  answer  to  the  one  impor- 
tant question,  "Has  Jack  got  a  job?"  in  the  tones  of 
Mary's  voice. 

Then  she  ceased  to  ask.  Her  economies  grew  more 
rigid.  She  grew  thin,  and  a  nervous  anxiety  was  evident 
in  her  manner.  The  girls  who  appealed  to  her  found  it 
more  difficult  to  arouse  her  sympathies.  All  that  they 
told  her  seemed  so  trivial  to  Mary's  problem.  Little 
purchases  were  made.  She  remembered  so  many  things 
that  would  have  made  life  better  for  her  sister,  but 
all  her  thought  was  to  get  money  ahead  to  pay  her  room 
rent  that  she  might  keep  Mary's  house  and  take  care 
of  Mary,  when  she  would  need  her  most.  No  word 
escaped  her  on  this  plan. 


212  THE  STORY  OF 

Mary,  when  Jack  did  not  get  work,  decided  she  must 
depend  on  the  neighbors,  on  Gretchen  and  Julia,  and 
Bridgy,  to  whom  she  told  her  plan,  hugged  her  secret 
joy  for  the  work  was  paying  well  at  the  shop.  No  miser 
ever  gloated  more  over  his  wealth  than  Bridgy  over  the 
money  that  was  to  enable  her  to  give  up  wage-earning 
for  a  month  to  care  for  the  child  she  loved. 

Mary's  father  had  grown  young  since  he  had  found 
this  refuge  from  the  horrors  of  his  own  home.  While 
Jack  was  working,  the  father's  favorite  tobacco  and  cob 
pipe  had  been  bought  every  Saturday  night,  and  Sun- 
day's dinner  plans  included  the  father.  His  pockets 
were  never  empty.  There  had  been  a  drum  on  the  top 
shelf  and  a  rattle  in  the  bottom  drawer  for  weeks.  The 
present  crisis  overpowered  him.  He  had  that  fine  re- 
serve that  would  not  intrude  sympathy,  and  the  equally 
fine  reserve  that  would  not  thrust  burdens  where  they 
would  have  to  be  borne  without  the  hope  of  giving  relief. 
The  tobacco  and  pipe  were  no  longer  love's  offering,  and, 
with  that  rare  courtesy  that  is  peculiar  to  the  Irish  gen- 
tleman of  the  soil,  Mary's  father  announced  that  he 
found  "smokin'  whin  he  wasn't  workin'  made  him  dizzy." 
The  contents  of  his  pockets  were  packages  of  fancy 
cakes,  or  rolls  that  were  of  peculiar  shape.  He  visited 
all  the  stores  he  found  open  Sunday  morning  to  find 
food  that,  because  of  the  way  it  was  shaped  or  packed, 
would  not  express  the  thought  that  it  was  meeting  a 
necessity.  And  Mary  was  most  careful  to  be  interested 
in  it  for  the  reasons  given  for  bringing  it.  Mary's 
mother  came,  but  the  wholesome  fear  of  Jack  kept  her 
away  when  her  condition  would  have  brought  shame  to 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          213 

Mary  and  Jack.  "His  honor's"  eyes,  too,  always  held 
the  threatening  gleam  when  they  met;  Mary's  mother 
never  forgot  his  clutch  on  her  shoulder.  Once,  only 
once,  did  she  demand  a  drop  because  of  her  faintness  in 
the  home  of  her  daughter.  The  response  was  one  that 
for  the  time  revealed  to  the  woman  what  her  child's 
feelings  for  her  were. 

The  day  when  demands  must  be  heard  in  that  home 
was  near.  Work,  responsibility,  and  care  were  not, 
never  had  been,  any  part  of  the  woman's  life.  Instinc- 
tively she  felt  the  reproach  Mary  never  voiced,  and 
avoided  her  home. 

At  last  the  time  came  when  the  last  penny  of  Mary's 
and  Jack's  capital  was  gone,  and  Jack  carried  their  first 
contribution  to  the  pawnshop,  dodging  everybody  like  a 
thief.  With  burning  face  Jack  laid  down  the  petty  sum 
received  for  his  suit  of  clothes.  Before  the  month  had 
passed,  the  pawnshop  held  all  of  their  possessions  a 
pawnshop  would  take;  a  few  days  more,  and  even  the 
pawn-tickets  had  passed  from  their  possession.  The 
second-hand  man  appeared,  and  soon  the  "things"  that 
had  nerved  both  Jack  and  Mary  for  hours  of  hard  work 
for  little  pay  had  disappeared.  There  remained  at  last 
only  the  things  that  could  neither  be  sold  nor  pawned. 
The  dreaded  moment  came  at  last;  the  first  call  was 
made  on  the  money  intrusted  to  Jacob.  The  rent  Jacob 
refused  to  take:  "I  trusts  you;  you  vill  soon  haf  work. 
No.  De  times  is  better  soon,  and  den  all  right."  Jack 
reached  over  the  counter  and  grasped  the  hand  of  the 
man  whose  faith  in  him  kept  hope  alive  in  his  own 
heart. 


214  THE  STORY  OF 

Bridgy  grew  whiter  and  thinner.  How  inadequate 
every  effort.  Do  what  she  would  she  could  not  get  more 
than  enough  to  pay  the  room  rent  till  she  could  go  to 
work  again.  Now  it  seemed  as  if  she  must  give  up  the 
promise  which  had  nerved  her  so  long,  and  let  others 
care  for  Mary.  What  she  could  save  would  be  needed 
for  medicine  and  food;  others  would  take  her  place, 
stand  between  her  and  her  opportunity  of  happiness.  So 
absorbing  was  her  problem  that  she  was  blind  to  the 
cloud  that  was  so  apparent  in  the  home  of  the  widow,  her 
landlady.  All  she  saw  was  the  slow-coming  poverty  in 
Mary's  home;  the  signs  that  the  end  of  their  resources 
had  been  reached,  but  she  dare  not  break  into  her  little 
hoard  for  that  must  be  kept  for  the  hour  of  trial. 

Mary's  father  suffered  as  he  did  not  dream  it  was 
possible  for  a  man  to  suffer.  He  had  work  but  one  or 
two  days  a  week.  He  knew  what  it  was  to  be  hungry  and 
cold.  He  paid  the  rent  in  bits,  by  the  week  when  he 
could,  but  daily  when  he  had  a  few  hours'  work  a  day. 
He  kept  a  shelter  for  Mary's  mother.  The  disgrace  of 
her  life  could  be  made  blacker,  but  he  must  prevent  it 
for  Mary's  sake.  The  sound  of  her  voice  would  blind 
him  for  a  moment,  so  much  did  he  loathe  her.  For  him- 
self, he  was  indifferent  whether  she  was  drunk  or  sober. 
There  came  at  last  a  time  when  he  and  Mary  welcomed 
the  protection  the  Island  gave  her.  They  rarely  men- 
tioned her  name.  When  it  was  evident  that  Mary  would 
need  her  mother,  both  hoped  that  the  need  would  arouse 
her,  and  bring  the  loving  qualities  that  both  knew  she 
possessed  to  the  surface.  Her  lack  of  interest,  her  perfect 
indifference  completed  the  work  of  estrangement,  and 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          215 

she  ceased  to  be  anything  to  them  but  a  burden,  a  bur- 
den they  carried  in  silence. 

The  day  of  Mary's  trial  drew  near,  and  Jack  and  Mary 
faced  the  world  almost  penniless;  even  the  bottom 
drawer  had  contributed  to  their  support,  and  was  now 
almost  empty.  Sometimes,  when  Mary  looked  into  it, 
she  shivered.  It  seemed  a  prophecy.  Jack  found  her 
once  sitting  on  the  floor  with  her  elbow  on  the  edge  of 
the  drawer,  crying.  As  he  stooped  beside  her  and  asked 
her  why  she  was  crying,  she  told  him.  "Don't,  Mary, 

don't !  I  can't "  Jack  went  to  the  window,  looking 

out  into  the  starless  night.  For  the  first  time  he  faced 
the  thought  of  death.  A  groan  brought  Mary  to  his  side. 
Looking  in  his  face,  she  saw  the  horror  she  had  faced 
for  days — death,  and  the  nameless  trench  that  to  the 
poor  is  worse  than  hunger  and  cold  and  nakedness ;  often 
death  is  dreaded  only  because  that  comes  after  it. 
Mary  stood  shivering  with  cold.  Jack  put  her  in  a 
chair,  but  it  was  beyond  his  power  to  lessen  her  fear,  her 
terror.  He  was  frozen  by  the  sudden  revelation  of  the 
possibilities  that  Mary  had  felt  since  the  night  Jack 
told  her  he  was  out  of  work. 

When  he  left  Mary  in  the  early  gray  of  the  next  morn- 
ing, she  called  him  back.  Putting  her  arms  about  his 
neck,  she  kissed  him.  The  memory  of  it  went  through 
the  long  hours  of  the  day,  and  quickened  his  feet  as  they 
began  to  mount  the  stairs  to  his  home.  Mary  blushed 
or  was  glad  by  turns  as  she  remembered  the  unwonted 
expression  of  her  love  through  the  hours  of  a  day  that 
to  her  in  the  home,  as  to  Jack  in  the  street,  was  one  of 
almost  tragic  experiences. 


216  THE   STORY   OF 

Soon  after  Jack  left  her,  Julia  came.  The  tie  between 
Julia  and  Mary  had  become  very  close.  It  seemed  to 
Julia  that  she  could  not  endure  the  prosperity  of  her 
own  life  while  Mary  was  enduring  these  weeks  of  un- 
certainty and  inevitableness.  That  morning,  before  her 
work  was  done,  she  came  to  Mary  nerved  to  say  what 
she  had  tried  to  say  for  weeks.  Charlie  was  now  her 
confidant,  and  he  had  encouraged  her  to  propose  to 
Mary  the  plan  that  had  formed  in  her  mind.  There  was 
a  determined  look  about  Julia's  mouth;  her  eyes  were 
humid,  so  close  were  the  tears.  The  burden  in  her  mind 
was  so  evident  that  Mary  looked  at  her  questioningly. 
"Mary,"  as  if  in  answer,  "there's  a  woman  in  our  house 
who  knows  a  lot."  Julia's  courage  waned  for  a  moment 
and  then  rallied.  "She  says  if  you  go  now  to  a  hospital, 
they'll  take  you  in."  Mary  grew  so  white  that  Julia 
stopped.  "No,  no,  Julia,  I  can't.  I  can't  go  away. 
I  can't  leave  Jack."  Mary  was  trembling,  pleading  to 
be  spared  from  what  she  knew  was  fate.  It  was  her 
only  refuge.  "Mary,  the  woman  says  they're  good  to  yer ; 
she'll  go  with  us  to  show  yer  the  way.  She  says  she's 
been  twice,  and  twice  home,  and  she'd  go  now  but  for 
leavin'  her  children.  She  says  it's  better  than  home; 
you'se  looked  after  better.  Oh,  Mary,  if  I  knew  how,  I 
wouldn't  let  yer  go;  Charlie  says  he'd  do  anything  for 
yer,  but  I'm  'feared,  and  there's  the  doctor.  Jack  can 
get  along.  I'll  clean  up  and  see  ter  him.  Go,  Mary, 
dear.  Come,  the  woman  will  go  wid  us.  Yer  can't  stay 
here." 

Long  coaxing  and  talking,  and  the  painful  journey 
which  was  to  be  of  inquiry  was  undertaken.  They  came 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          217 

back  without  Mary.  Her  hour  was  come — hastened  by 
worry,  by  want  of  food,  by  effort  when  she  had  not  the 
strength  for  it. 

Julia  waited  for  Jack  in  his  own  home.  She  never 
forgot  the  expression  of  his  face  as  he  listened  to  her. 
Just  once  he  spoke.  "Where  is  she?"  When  she  an- 
swered, he  turned  and  ran  down  the  stairs. 

To  Jack,  hospitals  were  places  where  "drunks"  were 
taken  when  they  fell  and  were  hurt,  where  men  were 
taken  when  they  were  injured,  and  where  brutes  who 
were  called  doctors,  did  heathenish  things  to  the  poor, 
that  they  might  cure  the  rich.  Black  spots  came  before 
his  eyes.  He  did  not  see  or  hear  anything  as  he  almost 
ran  through  the  streets  leading  to  the  hospital  where 
Mary  was.  It  seemed  to  him  he  scarcely  moved.  The 
people  he  passed  looked  after  him,  so  agonized  was  the 
face  of  the  man  who  knocked  against  them  and  did  not 
seem  to  know  it.  Women  with  sons  pitied  him;  men 
looked  after  him  with  faces  of  sympathy.  In  the  thor- 
oughfares of  poverty  there  is  quick  recognition  of  suffer- 
ing and  sorrow,  for  there  is  the  consciousness  of  common 
possibilities. 

When  he  reached  the  hospital,  Jack  was  denied  en- 
trance; it  was  after  hours.  "Yes,  his  wife  was  sick. 
The  doctors  were  with  her.  Yes,  he  might  inquire  in 
the  morning."  Dazed,  Jack  stepped  outside  the  railing. 
He  crossed  the  street  and  leaned  against  the  railing  of 
a  church  opposite,  and  gazed  at  the  wall  behind  which 
Mary,  his  own  Mary,  was  suffering  what  he  did  not  know. 
She  was  alone,  no  person  she  knew  about  her.  She  had 
never  been  sick  before  in  her  life,  he  suddenly  remem- 


218  THE   STORY  OF 

bered,  and,  0  God!  she  had  never  been  alone  before! 
Through  all  the  years  of  her  life,  in  every  experience, 
her  own  people,  her  father,  her  mother,  himself,  all 
three,  always  one  of  them,  had  been  with  her,  and  now, 
the  supremest  moment  of  her  life,  she  was  alone.  He 
dashed  across  the  street.  The  peal  of  the  bell  that  rang 
through  the  building  would  have  told  Mary  it  was  Jack, 
had  she  heard  it.  * 

"Mary !  For  God's  sake  let  me  go  to  her.  I'll  be  still. 
She's  never  been  alone  before.  Let  me  go  to  her."  His 
voice  was  scarce  above  a  whisper;  his  throat  ached  so  he 
could  scarcely  speak.  "My  good  man,"  was  the  response, 
"no  one  could  be  with  her  now  but  the  doctors  and 
nurses.  You  are  mistaken;  she  is  not  alone;  there  are 
several  with  her." 

A  new  terror  seized  Jack.  "Will  she  die  ?"  "We  hope 
not."  The  door  began  to  close.  Jack  thrust  his  body 
in.  "I  shall  call  the  police  if  you  make  a  disturbance," 
was  the  severe  comment  that  fell  on  unheeding  ears. 
"Mary,"  he  breathed  rather  than  spoke  over  and  over 
again.  A  man  in  uniform  ordered  Jack  to  move  on. 
Mechanically  he  obeyed.  "Where  is  she  ?"  he  asked  in  a 
helpless  voice  as  he  turned  from  the  door.  "In  the 
maternity  ward." 

What  was  that?  All  night  Jack  walked  about  the 
corner  on  which  the  hospital  stood.  Lights  gleamed 
here  and  there.  When  one  grew  brighter,  Jack  stood 
still,  scarcely  breathing.  The  windows  were  open. 
Towards  morning  there  was  the  faint  cry  of  a  baby. 
Jack  fell  on  his  knees  clinging  to  the  railing.  "If  yer 
got  any  heart,  tell  me,  is  she "  Jack,  you  could 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY         219 

not  say  it.  Speechless,  on  his  knees,  clinging  to  the 
railing,  Jack  knelt.  What  made  you,  Jack,  in  this  hour 
of  torture,  reach  out  for  help  ?  You  did  not  know  the 
name  to  use.  There  was  a  word  you  used,  but  it  had  no 
meaning  to  you;  it  was  one  you  learned  early  in  life. 
Big  men  used  it :  and  it  was  all  you  could  do  to  imitate 
them.  Now  there  has  come  to  you  a  consciousness  that 
somewhere,  outside  of  yourself,  there  is  a  Being  who 
could  help  if  He  would  only  listen;  He  is  so  far  off 
that  you  reach  out  with  less  certainty  than  the  heathen 
to  the  stone  god  he  sees.  It  was  a  heart-cry,  Jack,  that 
owned  no  creed,  you  were  just  a  man  too  weak  to  live 
without  God,  and  you  prayed  your  wordless  prayer. 

In  the  early  morning  there  was  the  sound  of  an  open- 
ing gate.  Jack  staggered  and  fell  toward  it.  The  am- 
bulance came  out.  Jack  sprang  on  the  step,  and  clutched 
the  doctor's  sleeve.  "Doctor,  was  that  Mary's  baby?" 
"Get  out,  you  drunk !"  He  gave  Jack  a  slight  push,  and 
Jack  lay  a  heap  right  at  the  gate.  He  had  eaten  little 
for  weeks,  and  nothing  for  a  day.  The  doors  were  closed. 
The  sun  roused  him.  The  moment  he  became  conscious 
he  crept  to  the  door,  clutching  the  knob.  He  would 
wait;  if  he  asked  they  might  drive  him  away.  He  half 
wondered  what  he  would  do  if  told  to  "move  on."  He 
waited. 

Upstairs,  behind  the  white  screen,  a  battle  was  being 
fought  for  life.  A  mother,  not  out  of  her  teens,  lay  on 
the  cot.  The  little  baby  she  would  never  see  was  carried 
past  the  door,  on  the  other  side  of  which  its  father 
leaned.  He,  too,  would  know  of  a  little  son  on  whom 
his  eyes  had  never  rested. 


220  THE  STORY  OF 

The  doctors  won.  A  month  later,  Jack,  now  a  familiar 
figure  to  the  hospital  authorities  and  entirely  familiar 
with  the  rules,  took  a  white-faced  Mary  home.  As  they 
passed  Gretchen's  door,  they  heard  the  loud,  clear  cry 
of  a  baby,  and  a  happy  mother's  voice,  "Mein  liebes 
Kind." 

Mary  gasped.  Jack  bent  his  head  and  kissed  her, 
whispering :  "He  did  take  care  of  you,  Mary,  He  did." 
This  was  Jack's  first  audible  acknowledgment  of  God 
and  His  power  to  answer  prayer. 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE  FOUNDING  AND  PROGRESS  OP  THE  FAMILY. 

THE  evening  before  Mary's  return  from  the  hospital 
Bridget  McDonnell  walked  down  to  the  street  she  had 
avoided  for  years,  hoping  to  meet  Mary's  father.  She 
knew  how  little  work  he  had,  but  the  misery  she  saw  in 
his  face  when  she  met  him  only  increased  the  burden 
she  carried. 

He  had  just  seen  his  wife  writhing,  screaming,  a  dis- 
torted expression  of  a  woman,  carried  off  in  the  patrol 
wagon.  She  had  returned  the  night  before  from  the 
Island.  How  long  could  he  bear  it?  Not  even  the 
danger  of  their  child's  death  had  kept  her  sober.  The 
day  after  he  told  her  that  her  mother  was  on  the  Island, 
Mary  was  worse,  Jack  told  him;  she  was  coming  home 
to-morrow  and  would  ask  for  her  mother,  and  he  must 
tell  her.  Mary  knew  that  she  usually  kept  sober  for 
a  time  after  her  return  from  the  Island ;  she  had  never 
been  so  bad  as  this  before;  would  it  make  the  child 
worse?  Why  didn't  the  woman  die?  How  could  he 
stand  it?  This  was  his  thought  when  Bridget  Mc- 
Donnell put  her  hand  out  in  friendly  greeting,  her  eyes 
full  of  sympathy.  What  a  contrast  she  was  to  the 
shrieking  woman  thrust  bodily  into  the  patrol  wagon  by 
two  policemen,  a  gaping  crowd  around,  and  followed 
by  a  hooting  crowd  of  children  as  the  wagon  rattled  off. 


222  THE  STORY  OF 

Bridget  McDonnell's  voice  and  manner  were  full  of 
sympathy  as  she  walked  down  the  familiar  dock.  She 
was  too  intent  on  her  errand  to  recall  the  days  of  her 
youth  when  beside  this  man,  now  bowed  with  sorrow, 
she  walked  in  conscious  pride  that  the  stalwart  and 
young  man  had  singled  her  out  from  among  the  gayer 
girls  as  his  companion. 

John  Cahill  looked  at  the  sweet  womanly  figure  be- 
side him,  her  face  aglow  with  the  suppressed  excitement 
caused  by  her  errand.  She  did  not  hesitate  to  ask  ques- 
tions and  direct  in  Julia's  home,  to  argue  and  coerce 
Charlie  to  follow  her  advice,  but  with  Mary  and  Jack 
this  had  been  impossible,  but  now  she  must  have  her 
way  in  their  home. 

Her  voice  was  anxious  and  strained  as  she  asked, 
"John,  are  you  sick  ?" 

"No."  The  answer  was  as  wearily  given  as  the  man 
looked. 

When  they  were  seated  on  the  end  of  the  dock  Bridget 
gathered  up  courage  and  stated  why  she  sought  him: 
"John,  Mary  is  coming  home  to-morrow.  I  want  to 
get  some  of  their  things  out  of  pawn  before  she  comes 
home.  I  must  get  her  clothes,  for  she  ought  to  go  out. 
Will  you  get  the  tickets  from  Jack,  and  tell  him  why?" 

Mary's  father  looked  over  the  water  for  some  minutes, 
struggling  with  his  feelings,  trying  to  find  voice  and 
words  to  answer  the  request. 

"Shure,  Bridget ;  they  never  said  anything  to  me,  nor 
me  to  them.  I  could  not  help  them.  Her  mother  was 
sick  home  and  needed  some  one  to  care  for  her,  and  I 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          223 

had  to  pay  for  that.  Me  work  was  poor,  so  altogether 
it's  not  much  good  her  father  done  her/' 

"Now,  John,  it's  well  for  the  child  she  didn't  hear  ye 
say  that,  'twould  make  her  sorry.  If  ye'll  not  do  it  for 
me,  shure  I'll  speak  to  him  meself.  Here  he  comes; 
he's  got  nothin'  yet,"  and  her  eyes  grew  dark  as  she 
saw  how  tired  and  discouraged  Jack  was. 

They  greeted  each  other  quietly,  and  then  Bridget 
told  Jack  what  she  wanted  to  do.  The  color  mounted 
into  Jack's  face. 

"I  put  some  money  by;  I  wanted  to  stay  from  work 
and  take  care  of  her,  but  I'd  have  to  keep  me  room,  and 
I  saved  the  money  to  do  it;  it's  Mary's;  I'd  like  to  get 
some  of  the  things  back,  some  of  her  cloth,es;  she  has 
nothing;  she  can  go  out  now,  and  she  ought  to.  Shure, 
Jack,  ye'll  let  me  do  this.  If  the  day  comes  when  you 
want  to  pay  me,  you  can;  I'll  never  say  one  word 
agin  it." 

Jack  gave  his  consent  by  nodding  his  head.  After  a 
time  he  acknowledged  that  he  had  been  compelled  to 
sell  more  things  since 'Mary  had  been  away.  In  spite 
of  even  this  Jack  was  hopeful  and  happy,  for  Mary 
would  come  home  the  next  day.  He  surely  would  get 
work  now.  His  hopefulness  encouraged  the  others,  and 
when  .they  walked  back  to  the  street  there  was  a  world 
of  new  opportunities  open  to  them. 

Each  day  is  always  a  promise  to  those  who  only  ex- 
pect it  to  give  its  least  gift — a  chance  to  work  for 
wages. 

Mary's  return  from  the  hospital  was  such  a  joy  that  the 
emptiness  and  poverty  of  the  home  made  no  impression 


224  THE   STORY   OF 

upon  her.  Julia  had  cleaned  it,  which  made  it  more 
barren.  Gretchen  sent  up  a  hot  supper,  saying,  "You 
are  not  strong  to  cook  yet." 

The  next  morning  Gretchen's  baby  was  brought  up 
to  Mary.  For  a  moment  tears  stood  in  her  eyes,  but  they 
dried  quickly.  Mary  faced  a  condition  that,  at  least 
for  the  time,  made  her  a  stoic. 

"I  must  go  to  work,"  she  kept  repeating  to  herself.  "I 
must  go  to  work.  What  would  I  do  with  a  baby !"  Be- 
fore the  week  was  out,  Mary's  mental  refrain  was: 
"Thank  God,  I'm  free !  What  chance  would  he  have  ? 
He's  better  off."  Mary  had  taken  another  step  forward. 
The  days  were  passing.  Jack  got  odd  jobs  that  brought 
in  barely  enough  money  to  keep  them  from  hunger.  The 
strain  was  telling  more  severely  on  Jack  than  Mary. 
She  began  to  tremble  for  him.  What  if,  in  desperation, 
he  should  begin  to  drink !  Mary  knew  that  this  was  the 
usual  resource  of  the  men  she  knew.  Men  who  never 
were  drunk  when  they  had  work,  she  knew,  kept  sober 
only  through  the  first  days  of  idleness. 

One  morning  Julia  came  in,  and,  sitting  down,  said 
with  a  sympathetic  smile,  "If  Jack  was  a  boy,  he  could 
have  a  place  at  Charlie's  shop ;  they  wants  a  boy."  "How 
much  do  they  pay?"  was  Mary's  comment.  "Three," 
answered  Julia,  listlessly.  "Do  they  get  any  chance  to 
learn  to  do  what  Charlie  does?"  The  anxious  tone  in 
Mary's  voice  as  she  asked  this  question  caused  Julia 
to  look  at  her  sharply,  as  she  replied,  "I  don't  know; 
I'll  ask." 

Mary  had  been  contrasting  the  conditions  of  the  fami- 
lies she  knew.  She  found  that  those  who  could  work  at 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          225 

anything  were  out  of  work  at  least  half  the  time.  The 
men  who  had  trades  worked  three-fourths  or  more  of 
the  time,  and  when  their  trades  were  not  dependent  on 
the  weather  they  worked  nearly  all  the  time ;  some,  like 
Charlie,  had  a  dull  season  which  for  a  period  meant  half 
or  three-quarter  time.  How  could  Jack  be  put  into  these 
ranks?  At  dinner-time  Mary  saw  Charlie  at  his  home, 
and  asked  numberless  questions  about  the  boy's  position 
in  the  factory.  These  questions  were  so  pointed  that 
Charlie  at  last  saw  their  drift,  and  asked,  "Would  Jack 
take  it,  Mary?  If  he  would,  I'll  get  it  for  him.  I'll 
break  the  jaw  of  any  one  who  says  a  word  to  him." 

Mary  looked  at  him  questioningly.  "There's  a  lot  of  fel- 
lers'll  think  it's  smart  to  guy  him  about  doing  a  boy's 
work.  They  ain't  got  sense  enough  to  see  that  a  boy's 
work  is  better  than  no  work,  and  sich  fellers  is  better  for 
a  punchin'."  The  lines  gathered  in  Mary's  face.  The 
break  in  the  wall  that  seemed  closing  about  them  was  not 
visible  now.  This  test  she  feared  Jack  would  not  stand. 
Was  it  right  that  she  should  ever  ask  him  to  try  it? 
Charlie  was  quick  to  see  the  problem  she  faced,  and  said : 
"Mary,  it  would  be  over  in  a  week.  The  fellers  would 
get  on  to  it,  and  keep  their  jaws  shut." 

Jack  was  more  quiet  that  evening  than  he  had  been 
since  Mary  came  home  after  a  fruitless  search  for  work. 
The  food  was  less  than  ever  before.  Mary  saw  that  Jack 
was  hungry  when  he  left  the  table. 

The  end  had  come. 

"Jack,  I  am  goin'  to  work  to-morrow.  They  are 
very  busy,  and  the  boss  will  be  glad  to  have  me  back." 
Jack  did  not  protest.  Mary  knew  the  danger  point  had 


226  THE   STOKY   OF 

been  reached.  Her  voice  grew  firmer  in  tone  as  she  went 
over  to  him,  and,  sitting  down  so  close  to  him  that  she 
could  touch  him  with  her  hand,  she  said,  softly :  "Jack, 
Charlie  says  there's  a  boy  needed  in  his  shop/'  She  looked 
at  him  anxiously,  and  hurried  to  the  end.  "Charlie  says 
the  boy  would  have  a  chance  to  pick  up  all  there  is  to 
learn,  and  would  have  a  good  show  at  the  end  of  two 
years  of  getting  full  wages;  he  says  it's  how  he  got  in." 
Jack's  face  flushed. 

"So  I'm  to  ask  for  a  boy's  work  ?  No,  yer  don't,  Mary. 
I'm  no  kid,  if  I  can't  get  work."  He  leaned  his  head  in 
his  hands  with  his  elbows  on  his  knees. 

"Jack,  listen.  We're  both  kids.  Don't  yer  see  that  all 
the  men  who  have  trades  and  keep  sober  have  work  'most 
all  the  time  ?  It's  the  men  like  you  who  have  the  worst 
time.  Take  the  place.  Charlie'll  keep  it  for  yer,  and 
help  yer.  I'll  go  to  work  again,  and  we  will  get  agoin', 
and  better  than  before,  for  we  knows  more.  The  wages  is 
three,  and  then  four.  Charlie  gets  fifteen  a  week,  and 
most  of  the  time.  The  boss  is  fair  to  the  men,  and  some 
has  been  with  him  twelve  years.  Jack,  try.  It's  sure  to 
be  better  than  nothin'." 

Jack  was  silent.  The  flush  of  anger  had  died,  but 
there  was  no  sign  of  yielding. 

"I  know  what  ye're  thinkin'.  The  girls  will  talk,  and 
the  men  will  joke  yer,  but,  Jack,  we  can't  stand  this.  I 
can't  go  home.  Mother "  Mary's  voice  broke. 

Jack  saw  there  was  still  one  step  worse.  They  might 
be  separated.  "Mary,  I'll  do  it,"  and  Mary  saw  that 
bitterest  of  sights,  a  strong  man  who  asks  but  a  chance 
to  work,  crying,  because  he  faces  defeat.  After  a  little 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY  227 

while  Jack  said,  "If  I  could  have  hired  a  horse  and 
wagon  just  for  a  week,  I  could  V  made  it  go.  It's  a 
good  trade,  dat,  if  yer  only  gets  a  start/' 

"We'll  be  all  right,  I  know  we  will.  It's  just  now. 
Come.  We'll  see  Charlie,  and  yer  can  go  to  see  the  boss," 
said  Mary. 

As  they  reached  the  street  and  met  some  men,  friends 
of  Jack's,  the  future  looked  black.  "Yer  don't  know, 
Mary.  Dey'll  all  have  der  laugh  on  me.  Why,  der  kids 
will  know;  dey'll  holler  on  der  street;  I'll  be  fightin' 
every  day." 

"Jack,  when  ye've  warmed  two  or  three  of  the  kids  and 
licked  a  couple  of  the  men,  dey'll  all  let  yer  alone.  The 
first  week'll  be  the  worst.  They'll  get  tired."  She  con- 
tinued, after  a  pause :  "Ye've  got  ter  do  it ;  we  can't  keep 
together  if  yer  don't."  Slowly,  "Jack,  if  I  knows  I'm 
goin'  to  die,  I'll  never  leave  home  again.  If  yer  learn 
somethin',  I'll  never  have  ter  go."  This  won.  The 
memory  of  the  month  without  Mary  was  still  vivid  and 
full  of  horrors. 

Charlie's  enthusiasm  made  the  announcement  of  the 
decision  far  easier  than  Jack  expected.  "I'll  help  yer 
lick  every  darn  one  of  'em  if  yer  can't  do  it  alone." 
Charlie  looked  as  if  it  would  be  a  painful  deprivation 
if  he  did  not  have  this  opportunity  to  prove  his  friend- 
ship. 

"I  tells  yer,  Jack,  the  man  what's  got  a  trade  is  on 
his  feet.  The  other  feller  ain't  even  sittin'  up.  Come, 
we'll  go  see  the  boss." 

The  next  day,  in  the  full  strength  of  his  young  man- 
hood, Jack  went  to  work  in  the  big  frame-factory  at  a 


228  THE   STORY   OF 

boy's  wages.  Mary  also  went  to  work.  The  girls  who 
knew  her  welcomed  her;  the  new  girls,  learning  she 
was  married,  commented  audibly.  After  some  wordy 
encounters  between  the  two  factions — for  such  were 
the  conditions  Mary's  appearance  created — and  the 
destruction  of  two  gay  and  innocent  hats,  Mary 
slipped  back  in  her  old  place,  the  best  worker  in  the 
shop.  Her  experience  prevented  the  old  companionship, 
but  it  gave  her  the  vantage  of  adviser,  and  to  some  girls 
monitor.  Mary  knew  how  poverty,  disorder,  lack  of 
space,  half-clothed  babies,  and  fathers  and  mothers 
whose  condition  too  often  opened  the  door  to  mortifying 
experiences  made  home  the  most  undesirable  of  places. 
Again  the  barren  little  home  became  a  social  centre. 
Mary  and  Jack  were  young  enough  to  sympathize  with 
love's  young  dream,  and  were  entirely  familiar  with  its 
barren  surroundings  in  their  world,  as  well  as  its  dan- 
gers. They  gave  to  their  world  that  which  they  had 
never  had,  the  protection  of  a  home  for  social  inter- 
change and  companionship  to  young  girls  and  young 
men. 

Mary  had  known  for  years  the  daughters  of  the  widow 
from  whom  Bridget  hired  her  room.  The  older  ones 
often  came  to  her  house  after  her  marriage ;  the  younger 
one  a  few  times.  When  Mary  first  knew  her  she  was  a 
schoolgirl  having  her  way  in  everything  except  one.  Her 
older  sisters  were  determined  to  keep  her  in  school ;  she 
could  not  coax  them  to  let  her  go  to  work.  Fora,  the 
elder  one,  would  never  marry;  she  had  never  received 
the  least  attention  from  any  man ;  she  was  the  head  of 
the  family,  the  one  who  gave  all  and  expected  nothing ;  it 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          229 

had  been  so  all  her  life.  The  second  sister  was  a  little 
older  than  Mary.  The  mother,  born  in  Ireland,  had 
reluctantly  followed  her  husband  to  "Ameriky,"  and 
never  adjusted  herself  to  her  new  environment;  even  in 
her  early  married  life  for  months  at  a  time  she  never 
walked  a  block  from  her  home.  Her  husband  had  steady 
work  on  ample  wages,  as  measured  by  their  wants.  He 
was  like  the  pendulum  of  a  clock  swinging  between  the 
dock  where  he  was  employed  as  freight  handler  and  his 
home.  He  was  kind,  but  almost  cruelly  silent;  his 
silence  grew  deeper  as  each  child  born  to  them  was  a 
girl.  This  was  as  great  a  disappointment  to  his  wife,  who 
always  held  the  apologetic  attitude  toward  him.  So  deep 
was  her  feeling  of  inadequacy  that  she  became  a  child 
in  her  own  house,  yielding  her  will  without  question. 
Failing  to  bear  a  son  she  accepted  the  penalty.  The 
eldest  girl  was  strong,  vigorous,  self-reliant,  a  good  pupil 
attracting  attention  in  school,  a  quick,  intelligent  worker 
when  she  went  to  work,  devoted  to  her  mother,  who  al- 
ways appealed  to  her  sympathies,  though  she  never 
understood  why;  she  felt  that  her  mother  in  some  way 
never  had  her  rights.  Her  father  commanded  her  re- 
spect, but  she  resented  his  attitude  of  indifference  to 
her  mother's  wishes,  not  because  they  were  disregarded, 
but  because  she  was  never  consulted.  As  she  grew  older 
she  conceived  a  dislike  and  abhorrence  of  marriage;  she 
devoted  herself  to  her  mother  and  sisters,  assuming  to 
her  sisters  a  more  dominant  relation  than  either  parent. 
Often,  as  she  arranged  and  planned  for  the  home,  or 
asserted  her  opinion  fearlessly,  the  father  would  say, 


230  THE   STORY   OF 

"She  ought  to  have  been  a  bye,  shure/'  believing  he  could 
pay  her  no  higher  compliment. 

Nora  was  the  one  who  was  in  touch  with  the  world; 
who  knew  its  opportunities  and  its  dangers.  In  school 
she  had  taken  a  high  place  for  her  world,  and  held  it, 
so  it  was  quite  natural  that  she  should  take  her  sisters  to 
school  at  the  proper  age,  enter  them,  and  hold  them  to 
the  standard  she  had  established  in  the  family.  This 
was  outside  the  province  of  the  father  and  mother. 
The  support  they  gave  Nora  established  her  authority 
with  her  sisters.  Slowly  but  surely  she  became  the 
director  of  the  home,  spending  the  money  as  seemed  to 
her  best,  always  having  a  margin  for  the  bank,  which 
she  deposited  Monday  nights. 

The  family,  naturally  reserved,  had  no  intimate 
friends.  The  mother  never  encouraged  neighborly  visits, 
for  she  was  afraid  some  one  would  come  in  with  a  baby 
boy  when  her  husband  was  home;  she  would  not  risk 
such  a  possibility.  So  quietly  did  she  live  she  was  al- 
most forgotten  by  her  neighbors,  a  relation  her  efficient 
daughter  did  not  change.  On  her  the  mother  grew 
more  and  more  dependent,  and  her  youth  slipped  by 
without  the  family  noting  it. 

When  the  youngest  sister  was  ten  years  old  the  father 
was  killed;  this  shock  increased  the  mother's  timidity; 
she  became  an  even  more  quiet  worker  in  her  own  home, 
who  knew  nothing  of  the  world,  to  whom  the  most  im- 
portant events  in  the  day  were  those  that  brought  her 
children  home;  the  most  important  work  in  the  world 
that  which  kept  their  home,  their  clothes  in  order,  and 
their  meals  ready  on  time. 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          231 

The  few  girl  friends  who  chanced  to  come  to  the  house 
were  so  impressed  with  its  tidiness,  its  evidence  of  com- 
fort, that  they  commented  freely.  The  family  lived  in  one 
of  the  broad  old  residences  given  up  to  four  families,  one 
in  the  basement.  The  hall  bedrooms  in  this  house,  like 
those  of  its  kind,  offered  the  opportunity  of  reducing  the 
family  rent  by  renting  furnished  rooms,  without  enter- 
ing the  family  rooms,  an  advantage  which  added  greatly 
to  their  value.  The  kitchens  were  large  and  light,  the 
parlor  spacious;  the  bedrooms  used  by  the  family  after 
the  father's  death  were  the  closets  of  the  old-time  fam- 
ilies, and  were  counted  bedrooms  in  the  rent  asked. 

When  the  father  died  the  question  of  reducing  rent 
was  settled  by  renting  the  front  hall  bedroom  which 
Nora  and  Kittie,  the  baby,  had  occupied.  Bridget  Mc- 
Donnell and  Nora  were  friends,  and  it  was  reckoned 
a  happy  opportunity  for  both  that  when  Bridget  needed 
a  room  Nora  needed  a  tenant. 

"If  my  mother  were  able  I  would  take  you  to  board, 
but  she  works  too  hard  now ;  besides,  Bridget,  she  never 
goes  out  and  is  shy  of  people." 

"I'd  rather  get  me  meals  when  I  want  them;  it's  a 
great  comfort  not  to  have  to  go  among  strangers ;  if  I'm 
sick  I'll  not  be  left  alone,  I  know  you'll  look  after  me. 
I  don't  know  why  I  should  say  that  when  I've  never 
been  sick  in  my  life." 

Between  Nora  Kelly  and  Bridget  was  a  strong,  self- 
reliant  friendship.  Nora  was  the  more  intelligent,  the 
better  equipped  of  the  two,  and  Bridgy,  as  her  friends 
called  her,  was  proud  of  Nora  and  of  their  friendship. 
Nora  found  her  a  friend  who  was  ready  to  help  when 


232  THE   STORY   OF 

she  was  asked.  Bridget  moved  in,  and  at  once  was 
given  a  semi-family  relation  by  the  widow  and  her 
daughters,  for  they  knew  how  she  would  miss  her  sister's 
family. 

It  had  been  Nora's  dream  to  educate  Kittie,  the  baby, 
for  a  teacher.  There  was  no  doubt  in  her  mind  that  a 
position  could  be  secured  for  her  when  she  was  ready. 
Kittie  had  accepted  the  idea,  neither  approving  nor 
disapproving.  She  went  to  school  regularly,  and  pride 
nurtured  by  Nora  made  her  wish  to  excel.  At  four- 
teen she  passed  the  entrance  examinations  for  the  Nor- 
mal College,  to  her  family's  delight,  and  in  the  fall  was 
to  begin  her  new  life.  Two  girls  in  her  class  were  going 
to  work  for  the  summer,  and  Kittie  begged  and  pleaded 
Nora  to  let  her  go ;  she  would  go  to  the  Normal  College 
as  soon  as  it  opened,  only  let  her  go  to  work  for  the 
summer  to  save  money  for  her  extra  clothes  the  new  life 
would  demand.  Nora  consented,  consented  through  fear. 

Kittie,  the  child  of  a  new  generation,  was  pretty, 
vivacious,  and  what  her  world  called  stylish.  Nora 
worked  early  and  late  making  clothes  for  her  doll,  for  on 
that  side,  to  Nora,  Kittie  was  a  doll.  She  was  tall,  well- 
developed,  happy,  quick  to  respond  to  every  emotion,  as 
to  every  opportunity.  Tremendous  strides  had  been 
made  in  the  world  since  Nora  went  to  school.  Kittie 
revealed  this  to  Nora;  she  demanded  better  clothes  for 
school  wear  than  at  her  age  Nora  had  for  church ;  there 
were  scores  of  things  she  expected  that  Nora  never 
dreamed  of.  It  had  become  a  severe  strain  on  the  family 
to  keep  Kittie's  wants  supplied,  and  both  sisters  knew 
that  the  moment  she  could  not  dress  as  the  other  girls 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          233 

did  Kittle  would  go  to  work,  she  would  not  stay  in 
school ;  she  belonged  to  another  generation  socially.  The 
ocean  had  been  brought  to  their  front  door  by  the  trol- 
leys, the  parks  to  the  back  doors  by  the  time  Kittie  was 
fourteen.  She  knew  more  of  New  York  at  fourteen  than 
her  sisters  at  twenty  and  twenty-seven;  she  had  invita- 
tions to  parties  at  the  houses  of  school  friends,  accepted 
them  without  asking  consent,  and  demanded  what  she 
wanted  to  wear  to  them.  Everything  in  Kittie's  life 
yielded  to  the  one  dominant  idea,  Kittie  must  not  work 
in  a  shop,  she  must  teach  school.  To  gain  her  consent  to 
this  every  sacrifice  was  made  to  keep  her  in  touch  with 
those  who  were  preparing  for  that  work;  those  who 
would  be  her  companions.  Kittie  had  more  pleasures, 
more  distraction  in  a  month  than  her  sisters  ever  knew. 
Her  friends  did  not  come  to  her  home,  for  they  were 
not  asked.  It  was  poorer,  in  a  poorer  neighborhood, 
than  the  homes  of  her  friends,  except  the  two  who  were 
going  to  work  for  the  same  reason  Kittie  did  that  sum- 
mer. The  home  that  was  a  source  of  pride  to  her  sisters, 
of  envy  to  their  friends,  was  a  source  of  mortification  to 
Kittie. 

With  all  Nora's  keenness,  her  apprehensive,  protecting 
love,  she  never  discovered  this;  such  a  possibility  lay 
outside  the  realm  of  her  imagination. 

Bridget  saw  it;  she  had  lived  with  her  nieces  through 
just  such  periods  of  evolution.  There  was  this  differ- 
ence, that  their  mother  saw  it,  responded  to  it,  and 
stimulated  her  husband  to  meet  and  live  up  to  the  new 
demands  of  their  children's  world,  to  get  on  faster  to 
enter  that  world.  It  was  this  which  removed  all  feeling 


234  THE   STORY   OF 

of  resentment  from  Bridget's  heart  when  their  pros- 
perity drove  her  out  of  the  home  where  once  she  had  been 
a  necessity. 

There  was  one  friend  who  came  freely  to  Kittie's 
home,  a  boy  who  was  born  in  the  house  and  had  lived  in 
it  till  he  was  fifteen.  He  was  an  only  son.  His  father 
was  successful  in  business,  still  more  successful  in 
politics,  eventually  uniting  the  two.  When  the  boy,  one 
year  older  than  Kittie,  was  sixteen,  his  father  took  a 
whole  house  uptown,  furnished  it  expensively  as  his 
standards  decided,  and  established  his  family  there.  His 
place  of  business  offered  every  facility  for  conducting  his 
political  affairs,  and  they  became  cooperative.  His 
change  of  residence  did  not  reduce  the  number  of  votes 
he  controlled,  he  continued  his  combination  as  effectually 
as  when  he  lived  in  the  ward. 

His  son,  Bob,  entered  a  Wall  Street  office  the  day 
Kittie  entered  the  shop.  There  was  this  difference  in 
the  beginning  of  the  two  careers.  Bob  knew  he  was 
beginning  his  life  work.  Kittie  was  filling  in  time. 
There  was  no  connection  between  Kittie's  present  and 
future.  The  social  affiliations  and  standards  of  Bob  and 
Kittie  had  been  identical;  there  had  been  no  line  of 
cleavage  though  their  financial  positions  for  years  had 
differed  widely.  Kittie  would  have  been  no  more  sur- 
prised than  Bob  at  any  thought  of  distinction;  their 
friendship  was  a  part  of  their  lives,  as  unquestioned 
as  the  air  or  sunshine. 

Kittie's  wages,  instead  of  being  saved  for  the  in- 
creased demands  of  Formal  College  aesthetic  standards, 
with  which  Kittie  had  been  made  familiar  by  her  girl 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          235 

friends — were  expended  to  meet  her  immediate  demands 
which  far  outran  Kittie's  wage-earning  capacity.  Be- 
sides, she  liked  the  society  she  found  in  the  shop.  The 
girls  were  full  of  fun ;  when  night  came  there  were  more 
plans  for  fun  than  time  in  which  to  execute  them. 
There  were  the  parks  with  the  music,  and  all  the  gay  life 
which  centred  in  them.  Always  new  men  and  girls  to 
meet.  The  shop  was  the  opportunity  to  link  the  even- 
ings together.  Long  before  the  summer  ended  all  the 
chains  of  the  dependent  school  life  were  broken,  and 
Kittie  had  resolved  she  would  never  submit  again  to 
their  bondage.  She  told  Bob  so  one  night  in  the  park 
when  they  had  withdrawn  from  the  crowd  about  the 
music  stand. 

"If  I  go  back  to  school,  it  will  be  work,  work  every 
night;  I  don't  want  to  go  unless  I  can  be  at  the  head 
of  the  class.  I  couldn't  keep  there  unless  I  studied  half 
the  night ;  I  couldn't  have  a  bit  of  fun.  I  haven't  told 
Nora  yet,  but  I'm  going  to." 

Bob  was  silent.  In  spite  of  his  love  of  fun  and  his 
interest  in  Kittie,  and  enjoyment  of  her  companion- 
ship, he  had  a  vague  feeling  that  this  decision  of  Kittie's 
was  not  wise;  yet  if  Kittie  was  going  to  be  shut  in  the 
house  every  evening,  now  that  he  was  in  an  office,  he 
would  not  see  her  at  all.  Yet  he  wished  she  would  go 
to  school.  He  wanted  her  to  be  like  the  bookkeeper's 
daughter  who  came  to  the  office  sometimes  to  go  home 
with  her  father.  How  sweet  she  looked;  she  wasn't  as 
pretty  as  Kittie,  but  she  did  look  just  right. 

"Kittie,  why  do  you  wear  so  many  flowers  on  your 
hat?" 


236  THE   STORY   OF 

Kittle  was  startled.  Her  whole  week's  wages  had 
gone  in  that  hat,  and  Nora  had  been  very  angry.  She 
had  bought  it  to  go  with  Bob  and  the  others  to  Glen 
Island,  Sunday,  and  now  Bob  did  not  like  it.  With  a 
saucy  toss  of  her  head,  Kittie  said,  "I  wear  them  because 
I  like  them." 

Neither  spoke  for  a  long  time,  when  Bob,  determined 
to  make  Kittie  like  .the  bookkeeper's  daughter,  said 
slowly,  but  with  a  decision  which  made  Kittie  fearful 
of  she  knew  not  what,  "I  wish  you  would  not  wear  those 
awful  thin-  dresses,  they  ain't  nice." 

Kittie  rose,  white  with  anger;  she  looked  very  tall 
and  womanly  as  she  stood  in  the  circle  of  electric  light. 

"I  buy  my  clothes  and  they  suit  me,"  she  retorted, 
walking  toward  the  music  stand.  Bob  did  not  follow 
her,  she  had  never  been  angry  with  him  before.  He 
knew  he  was  right.  Kittie  belonged  to  him;  he  must 
make  her  do  some  things. 

A  tall  man,  the  brother  of  one  of  her  classmates  now 
in  the  shop  with  her,  who  had  come  to  the  same  decision 
as  to  her  future,  had  joined  the  group  Kittie  had  left, 
and  which  she  soon  rejoined.  Kittie  had  met  this  man 
once  or  twice,  and  now  responded  to  his  cordial  greeting 
gayly.  On  Sunday  he  went  with  the  party.  Bob  saw 
them  go,  saw  Kittie,  wearing  the  thin  dress  and  the 
many-flowered  hat,  with  this  man.  Bob  returned  home 
angry. 

Bob  was  lonely.  He  did  not  know  the  young  people 
in  the  neighborhood  where  he  had  moved,  and  no  at- 
tempt was  made  to  become  acquainted  with  him.  The 
''boys"  he  knew  in  Wall  Street  were  what  might  be  called 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          237 

six-day  acquaintances.  If  they  met  him  Sunday  they 
merely  bowed,  and  Bob  never  met  the  ladies  who  were 
with  them.  His  father  was  home  less  than  ever.  Night 
after  night  he  remained  downtown  to  meet  the  men 
whose  support  was  necessary  for  the  extension  of  his 
business,  which  was  with  the  city  principally. 

Without  his  downtown  friends  Bob  was  very  lonely. 
Monday  evening  he  went  after  Kittie  and  took  her  for  a 
ride  in  the  trolley;  she  wore  the  dress  and  hat  to  which 
he  objected,  but  so  defiantly  that  Bob  decided  he  would 
not  speak  of  her  clothes  again  for  a  time.  "Kittie  don't 
dress  right,"  was  his  inward  comment,  but  he  said  noth- 
ing. He  would  make  her  dress  differently  when  they 
were  married,  he  decided.  She  ought  to  do  so  now, 
he  thought,  for  she  was  his  now.  He  must  wait.  Kittie 
was  sure  to  do  right  in  the  end. 

"Nora,  do  you  believe  in  letting  Kittie  go  free,  as  she 
does,  night  after  night,  you  sewin'  f er  her  and  Annie  and 
yer  mother  do  all  the  work  ?"  Bridget  had  watched  Nora 
sewing  all  the  evening  after  a  day  of  hard  work. 

Nora  blushed  and  looked  angry,  but  did  not  reply. 
Bridget  was  determined  to  arouse  Nora. 

The  next  day  Bridget  began  again. 

"Shure,  Nora  dear,  yer  know  I  wouldn't  be  interferin' 
if  I  didn't  love  the  child.  I  know  how  innocent  she  is, 
but  I  think  you  ought  to  keep  her  in  more,  or  know 
what  it  is  she  be  doin',  and  where  she  be  goin'."  They 
were  going  home  from  work,  snuggled  together  under  an 
umbrella.  Nora  resented  what  Bridget  had  said,  yet  she 
was  grateful  that  she  had  spoken;  Kittie  was  her  idol, 
but  for  weeks  she  had  lived  in  terror.  Kittie  would  not 


238  THE   STORY   OF 

listen  to  her.  She  followed  her  own  will.  Slowly  and 
painfully  she  was  learning  that  she  could  not  influence 
Kittie  at  all.  Nora  was  unhappy,  but  love  and  loyalty 
kept  her  silent. 

"Yer  know,  Nora,  why  I  spoke ;  the  child  did  not  get 
in  till  one  o'clock  last  night;  I  was  awake,  and  I  heard 
a  voice  I  did  not  know;  I  looked  out  of  the  windy  and 
Kittie  was  talkin'  with  a  tall  man  I  never  laid  me  eyes 
on  before.  Nora,  dear,  don't  let  her  go  so  free  like;  she's 
only  a  child." 

Nora  was  crying.  "Bridgy,  I  can't  keep  her  in.  I've 
said  everything  to  her,  and  she  won't  listen.  I  saw  her 
when  you  did  last  night;  she  says  the  man  is  a  brother 
of  one  of  the  girls  who  went  to  school  wid  her,  an'  that's 
all  I  could  get  out  of  her.  'Twould  kill  me  mother  if 
she  knew." 

"You've  let  her  put  ivery  penny  she  makes  on  her 
back.  Stop  it,  Nora.  She  ought  to  keep  herself  with 
her  wages.  Begin  now,  and  make  her;  she  has  a  good 
heart;  ye're  to  blame,  I  see  that." 

All  resentment  died  out  of  Nora's  heart  at  this  defence 
of  Kittie.  For  the  thousandth  time  she  resolved  to 
demand  part  of  Kittie's  wages  Saturday  night. 

In  the  meantime  Bob  had  ceased  coming  to  the  house. 
Kittie  in  spite  of  her  social  activities  missed  this  com- 
panion of  her  childhood;  a  vague  terror  possessed  her, 
tremulous  lines  came  about  her  mouth,  and  shadows 
formed  under  the  baby  blue  eyes. 

Nora,  roused  by  fear,  brought  the  strength  of  her  will 
power  to  bear  on  Kittie,  and  compelled  Kittie  to  give  her 
half  of  her  week's  wages  the  next  Saturday  night.  This 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          239 

interfered  so  seriously  with  Kittie's  plans,  that  Sunday 
she  would  not  go  out  of  the  house.  The  "girls  and  fel- 
lows," as  Kittie  called  them,  were  going  on  an  excursion 
that  day — Kittie's  first  Sunday  excursion — and  Mr. 
Smith,  the  swellest  fellow  of  the  crowd,  had  asked  her 
to  go.  She  had  ordered  a  new  hat  and  a  boa  to  be  paid 
for  Saturday  night,  but  Nora  had  taken  her  money,  and 
she  could  not  pay  for  them.  Sad  and  red-eyed,  Kittie 
sat  about  the  house  all  day  with  one  ally,  her  mother, 
who  openly  denounced  taking  "the  child's  few  pennies. 
Shure,  I'll  go  widout  eatin'  meself,  if  that'll  satisfy  yer," 
was  hurled  at  Nora  over  and  over  again. 

Poor  Nora!  The  world  was  very  dark  for  you  that 
day.  Annie  told  Nora  privately,  "It  was  about  time 
she  did  something  with  Kittie,  they  had  never  been  al- 
lowed to  act  the  way  she  did/'  but  she  kept  quiet  before 
Kittie  and  her  mother,  as  she  hated  "rows."  Kittie  re- 
fused to  speak  to  Nora  all  day,  but  made  frequent  op- 
portunities to  denounce  stinginess.  All  the  week  the 
cloud  hung  over  the  home.  Bridget  defended  Nora,  and 
tried  to  strengthen  her  purpose.  Saturday  night  late, 
Kittie  walked  in  with  two  boxes.  Her  manner  was 
triumphant.  Nora  followed  Kittie  in  to  the  bedroom 
they  occupied  together. 

"Kittie,  have  you  spent  your  wages  ?" 

"I  have.  I'll  give  you  half  next  week,  but  I  won't 
this,  for  I  haven't  got  it." 

Nora  looked  at  her.  How  pretty  she  was  with  her  eyes 
shining,  her  cheeks  flushed,  with  the  mass  of  soft  hair 
about  her  white  forehead.  Nora  felt  helpless,  yet  she 
knew  Kittie  must  be  controlled. 


240  THE  STORY  OF 

"Where  are  yer  goin'  to-morrow?" 

"With  the  girls,  on  a  boat  ride  up  the  river."  There 
was  a  note  of  defiance  in  Kittie's  voice,  but  her  eyes  fell. 
Would  she  win,  or  would  Nora? 

"Who  else  is  goin'  ?    Is  Bob  ?" 

"I  haven't  seen  Bob  in  three  weeks.    He's  too  fresh." 

Kittie,  there  wasn't  one  flower  on  your  new  hat ! 

"Where  is  Bob  ?  Have  yer  had  a  spat  ?"  Nora  spoke 
after  a  time. 

Kittie  was  crying;  she  nodded  in  reply  to  Nora's  ques- 
tion. 

"What  was  the  matter?"  Nora  was  persistent,  this 
easy,  indulgent  sister. 

"He,"  Kittie  was  sobbing,  "said  my  dress  wasn't  nice, 
the  white  one  you  made  with  the  tucks  and  lace,  and  he 
didn't  like  my  hat — told  me  it  had  too  many  flowers 
on  it." 

Nora  was  sitting  up  straight. 

"What  did  Bob  say  was  wrong  about  yer  dress  ?" 

"It  was  too  thin  about  the  shoulders." 

The  puzzled  look  deepened  in  Nora's  eyes.  She  looked 
critically  at  Kittie.  Bob  had  always  been  a  nice  boy. 
He  was  in  a  good  place.  He  ought  to  know.  She  would 
make  a  lining  for  Kittie  to  wear.  When  she  told  Kittie, 
Kittie  sat  down  on  the  bed,  and  putting  her  head  on 
Nora's  shoulder,  she  whispered,  "That's  why  I  bought 
the  boa,  I  thought  it  would  cover  up;  I  didn't  think 
about  a  lining,  Nome."  Then,  in  a  lower  voice,  she 
added,  "The  hat  hasn't  a  flower  on  it."  She  held  it 
before  Nora,  a  pretty  mass  of  soft,  fluffy  white. 

"But,  Kittie,  dear,  we  might  have  taken  some  of  the 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          241 

flowers  off  yer  old  one,  that  was  easy;  you  could  have 
saved  the  money  this  cost." 

Poor  little  Kittie  sat  down  speechless  for  a  moment, 
then  penitently,  with  both  arms  around  Nora's  neck,  "I 
didn't  think,  Norrie.  Keally  and  truly,  I  didn't  think." 

Nora  was  up  early  the  next  morning  to  help  Kittie 
get  off  on  time;  the  boat  went  at  8.30,  and  Kittie  must 
not  be  late.  Kittie's  escort  did  not  come  for  her;  he 
never  came  to  the  house  for  her,  she  met  him  somewhere 
en  route.  So  many  girls  did  this,  that  among  her  own 
friends  it  was  not  remarked. 

In  the  afternoon  Bridget  was  going  to  Mary's.  Nora 
was  to  go  with  her.  Bidget  had  been  washing  and  mend- 
ing her  clothes ;  so  had  not  seen  the  family.  She  stopped 
for  Nora;  she  gave  a  searching  glance  about  the  room, 
"Where's  Kittie?" 

"She's  gone  with  the  girls  for  a  boat  ride;  I  don't 
know  where." 

A  frown  gathered  on  Bridget's  forehead. 

Nora  tried  to  become  indignant  at  Bridget,  but  her 
earnest,  sweet  face,  her  evident  affection  and  interest  in 
her,  and  in  those  she  loved,  made  it  impossible. 

"Nora,  shure  I  thought  yer  were  to  know  where  Kittie 
was  goin'  after  this,  and  who  she  was  goin'  with.  Shure, 
it  isn't  right  for  her  to  be  so  free,  as  if  she  had  no  one 
to  care  what  she  did;  she  has  a  good  home,  let  her 
bring  her  friends  to  it;  there  ain't  many  girls  got  such 
a  home." 

"Bridgy,  I  can't  do  anything  with  her;  if  I  cross  her 
she  makes  me  afraid.  The  only  thing  I  can  do  is  to 
keep  her  home  by  lettin'  her  have  her  own  way;  she's 


242  THE   STORY   OF 

earnin'  enough  now  to  pay  board  at  any  of  the  girls' 
houses.  If  she's  crossed  she'd  go  away  from  home ;  Mol- 
lie  Smith's  married  sister  would  take  her  in  a  minute; 
yer  know  she  married  and  has  a  whole  floor,  and  the 
things  bought  on  installment;  he  got  out  of  work  last 
week;  she'd  take  Kittie  in  a  minute.  Then  there's  me 
mother;  if  I  cross  Kittie  I  cross  her;  they  nearly  drove 
me  crazy  last  Sunday.  I'll  always  take  what  Kittie 
gives  me  of  her  wages,  but  HI  not  make  her  give  it  to 
me ;  I'm  afraid  of  what  she'd  do.  Shure,  I  think  I'd  go 
crazy  if  anything  happened  to  Kittie.  Annie  is  always 
good,  but  I  love  Kittie  better  than  any  one." 

The  afternoon  passed  quietly.  Mary  was  trying  to 
mend  her  dress,  and  the  two  friends,  wholly  forgetful  of 
the  day  of  the  week,  helped  her.  Julia  came  in  without 
the  baby.  Bridget  McDonnell  faced  her  at  once. 

"Where's  the  child?" 

"His  father  and  Jack  have  taken  him  to  cross  the 
ferry,  and  for  a  bit  of  a  car  ride." 

There  was  a  happy,  confident  smile  on  Julia's  face. 
The  future,  so  dark  and  forbidding  but  a  few  months 
ago,  was  radiant  with  promise.  Her  crown  of  joy  had 
come,  when  Charlie  the  night  before  had  bought  red 
shoes  for  the  baby  and  a  cap.  When  the  baby  was 
dressed,  Charlie  said,  "I'm  going  to  take  the  kid  out 
alone."  He  was  proud  of  his  son,  and  his  son's  mother 
walked  proudly  to  the  corner  with  them  on  their  way 
to  the  boat.  How  handsome  they  were,  her  husband  and 
her  son,  no  woman  in  the  ward  had  either  to  equal  hers. 
It  was  this  which  gave  Julia  her  remote,  exultant  air 
when  she  reached  Mary's.  She  became  more  natural 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          243 

when  Charlie  came  back  and  put  the  boy,  asleep,  in  her 
arms. 

When  tea  time  came  Mary  insisted  on  Nora  and 
Bridget  staying  with  her.  On  their  way  home  Bridget 
decided  to  go  to  see  Jennie  Mulligan,  who  was  sick,  and 
had  not  been  to  work  for  a  week.  They  were  so  busy 
at  the  shop  that  if  Jennie  was  going  to  be  sick  long 
Bridget,  now  forewoman,  must  get  another  hand.  The 
boss  told  her  that  she  must  turn  out  more  work  to 
meet  the  orders ;  she  would  fill  the  bench,  there  was  only 
Jennie  Mulligan's  place,  and  then  arrange  for  overtime 
work. 

Bridget  never  came  into  this  neighborhood  without  a 
certain  apprehension.  She  did  not  want  to  meet  Mary's 
mother;  she  knew  what  she  had  become,  but  had  never 
seen  her  when  she  was  not  sober.  It  seemed  disloyal  to 
witness  John  Cahill's  disgrace. 

It  was  a  dark  night  and  threatened  rain.  The  two 
women  hurried  on  planning  the  work,  comparing  this 
season's  work  with  that  of  other  years,  forecasting  styles 
from  the  feathers  they  were  working  on.  They  had 
reached  the  street  next  to  the  river,  and  were  turning  the 
corner,  when  they  were  brought  to  a  sudden  stop  by 
seeing  a  policeman  bending  over  a  woman  lying  on  the 
sidewalk.  His  hat  lay  on  the  walk  beside  him  as  he 
knelt  holding  the  woman's  head  against  his  breast;  his 
face  was  white  and  drawn  in  agony  they  could  see  even 
in  this  light.  He  recognized  Bridget  at  once,  as  she 
did  him,  and  in  a  voice  hoarse  and  unnatural,  said :  "It's 
Mary.  Go  and  get  John.  We  can  get  her  home  be- 
tween us.  Both  go,  yer  can't  do  nothinV  They  hur- 


244  THE  STORY  OF 

ried  away.    Charlie  took  his  handkerchief  and  wiped  the 
face  of  the  woman  he  held  so  tenderly. 

"Yer  don't  know  Mary,  dear;  but  it's  me  that's  hold- 
in'  yer,  and  ye're  dyin'.  I  see  that.  Yer5!!  bother  nobody 
no  more."  His  tears  were  falling  on  the  woman's  face. 
"Ye've  done  wrong,  Mary,  but  God'll  forget  it.  I  do, 
Mary.  He  knows  it  might  have  been  different,  and  so 
do  I.  We  don't  blame  yer,  Mary.  If  John  had  been  dif- 
ferent, yer  wouldn't  have  gone  on  so;  but  he's  hard,  I 
know  that.  He  didn't  understand  yer.  Mary,  do  yer 
know  it's  me?  I  don't  want  yer  to  think  it's  one  yer 
don't  know.  Mary" — the  man's  voice  was  strained  with 
passion — "Mary,  I  have  yer,  Charlie."  The  woman 
moved.  He  bent  down  lower,  "Mary,  I've  been  true  to 
yer.  I've  cared  for  no  one  else.  Der  yer  know  now?" 
Her  head  grew  heavy  on  his  arm,  and  he  held  her  closer. 
"Mary,  der  yer  know  it's  me?"  She  opened  her  eyes, 
looked  fully  at  him,  and  then  a  fluttering  sigh  escaped 
the  half-parted  lips. 

"She  knows  it's  me,  and  that  she  ain't  alone.  I've 
always  been  afraid  she'd  be  alone  when  it  came,  or  on 
the "  He  did  not  finish,  but  lifting  his  head  a  mo- 
ment and  then  bending  it  lower  over  the  woman,  he 
said — prayed  rather :  "Thank  God !"  He  had  not  heard 
the  approaching  footsteps,  nor  noticed  the  three  standing 
beside  him;  all  were  still,  only  the  man  who  watched 
him  understood.  At  last  Charlie  saw  them,  and  looking 
into  the  face  of  the  woman's  husband,  he  said  quietly : 

"Yer  have  yer  wish,  John;  she's  dead.  She  fell 
crossing  the  street  and  I  rung  for  the  ambulance  before 
I  brought  her  here^  'twill  come  in  a  minute.  No,  I'll 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          245 

hold  her  till  the  wagon  comes;  they'll  let  us  take  her 
home  this  time."  His  tears  fell  on  the  hair  which  hung 
like  a  veil  about  the  woman  who  was  his  in  death  only. 

Tuesday  the  end  came  for  which  John  Cahill  had 
lived.  His  wife  would  leave  his  home  never  to  return 
to  it.  He  was  free.  The  stern  gray  face  silenced  the 
hum  of  conversation  on  the  neighboring  stoops  while  the 
groups  of  children  fell  back  as  he  followed  the  coffin 
into  the  sunshine  with  Mary  and  Jack  on  either  side. 

Protected  by  the  lumber  pile  in  the  yard  opposite  a 
man  in  a  plain  black  suit  stood  with  his  hat  in  his 
hand  when  the  painted  coffin  was  borne  out  of  the  house. 
The  tears  dropped  in  great  drops  on  his  coat.  "They 
might  have  given  you  a  flower,  Mary  dear ;  some  of  them 
might  have  done  that  much.  I'll  do  it,  Mary.  They'll 
never  think  of  you  after  they  leave  yer  out  there,  and  I 
can  have  yer  now,  dear.  I  heard  he  only  bought  a  grave 
and  I  bought  the  one  next,  there  I'll  lie  next  yer,  Mary, 
and  ye'll  know,  I  am  sure  ye'll  know."  The  sobs  shook 
the  strong  man.  Through  his  tears  he  watched  the  peo- 
ple who  had  gathered  to  enjoy  the  excitement.  On  a 
neighboring  stoop  stood  a  black-haired,  black-eyed  little 
woman  holding  a  young  baby  in  her  arms.  She  was 
elfish  now  in  spite  of  the  years  she  had  lived;  always 
there  was  a  glint  of  mischief  in  her  eyes.  That  her  life 
had  been  happy,  her  appearance  gave  every  evidence. 
The  man  who  stood  beside  her  with  his  hand  resting  on 
her  shoulder,  was  a  stalwart  man  who  carried  himself 
with  an  air  of  command.  A  young  man  stood  back  of 
the  little  black-eyed  woman,  who  was  a  strong  blending 
of  the  man  and  woman,  being  tall  like  the  man,  but  with 


246  THE  STORY   OF 

the  same  gleam  of  fun  in  his  black  eyes,  the  same  rings 
of  dark  curling  hair  as  the  woman's.  The  open  shut- 
ters on  the  first  floor  showed  lace  curtains  now  parted 
as  a  young  girl,  the  picture  of  the  woman,  stood  with  her 
face  pressed  against  the  window,  watching  the  funeral. 
There  was  a  quiver  about  the  mouth  of  the  woman  with 
the  baby  as  the  coffin  was  borne  across  the  sidewalk. 

Charlie  looked  at  the  woman  through  his  tears. 
"Kittie  Kerrigan,  ye  didn't  mane  to  spoil  her  life  when, 
in  mischief,  ye  coaxed  me  to  go  wid  ye,  and  then  tazed 
her  about  it,  but  ye  did.  She  wouldn't  have  been  carried 
out  wid  ye  all  remembering  what  she  did  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  you.  She  got  mad  and  did  what  she  never 
meant  to  do,  and  John  Cahill  found  it  out.  She  paid  a 
big  price,  Kittie,  for  yer  mischief.  It  never  harmed  ye, 
Kittie,  and  it  do  seem  to  me  very  strange.  My  God! 
Look  at  him!  Not  a  tear.  Glad  Mary,  laughing 
Mary,  the  happiest  girl  God  ever  made,  dead!  and 
he  don't  cry.  Shure  ye  have  no  right  to  foller  her  wid 
the  thoughts  I  see  in  yer  face,  John.  Shure,  ye  think 
she  was  to  blame  for  it  all.  It'll  come  to  yer  yet,  that 
when  ye  coaxed  the  child  to  go  to  the  priest  wid  yer 
that  night,  knowing  she  was  mine,  yer  made  her  what  she 
was ;  yer  froze  her  when  yer  found  the  truth,  and  drove 
her  to  her  failin';  and  now  ye're  buryin'  her  widout  a 
flower.  She'll  have  them  as  long  as  I  live,  John  Cahill, 
and  yer'll  be  put  some  place  else  when  yer  die,  for  I'll 
lay  beside  her.  She  was  mine  always.  I'll  be  wid  her 
when  ye're  all  gone  this  day."  The  hearse  began  to 
move;  a  wheel  slipped  into  a  hole  in  the  worn-out 
street,  as  it  was  jerked  out  by  the  horses  and  bounded, 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY         247 

the  man  stretched  out  his  arms  in  agony,  "My  God! 
can't  you  take  her  easy  when  she's  dead?"  When  the 
hearse  had  turned  the  corner  out  of  sight,  he  sank  on 
the  pile  of  boards  moaning  out  his  grief.  For  hours  he 
sat  there  until  the  roll  of  a  carriage  called  his  attention 
back  to  the  house  across  the  street.  It  stopped  and  John 
Cahill  got  out,  as  he  entered  the  door  and  disappeared  in 
the  hall,  Charlie  stood  up. 

"Now  ye're  done.  You've  done  all  yer  can,  and  she's 
mine.  Yer'll  never  have  the  money  to  put  a  stone  over 
her,  but  I  have,  and  no  man  will  know  who  Mary  be- 
longed to,  fer  yer  name  will  not  be  on  it.  Yer  kept 
her  for  life,  but  she's  mine  now,  and  she'll  understand. 
I'll  never  walk  this  beat  again.  I  kept  it  for  her,  and 
she  don't  need  me  now,  I'll  go.  If  there's  power  to  put 
me  near  her  there  I'll  be  there  till  I've  answered  roll- 
call  for  the  last  time,  and  they  lay  me  beside  her." 

The  watchman  let  him  out  the  gate  on  the  next  ptreet ; 
he  crossed  the  ferry  and  found  his  way  to  the  place 
where  Mary  was  laid.  As  he  spread  the  flowers  over  the 
grave  he  whispered  softly,  "There,  acushla,  ye're  not 
alone,  and  it's  me  is  wid  yer.  Yer  don't  mind  now,  I 
know.  It's  all  right,  Mary,  dear,  God'll  forgive  yer, 
dear ;  I've  nothin'  to  forgive.  You  were  cheated,  darlint, 
and  it  went  hard  wid  yer.  Shure  ye  were  only  a  child. 
I'll  be  here,  dear,  an'  it  won't  be  so  long  aither,  I'm 
thinkin.'." 


CHAPTEE  XL 

THE  DAYS  BETWEEN. 

MARY  was  glad  her  mother  was  dead.  Ever  since  her 
marriage  her  relations  to  her  mother  had  been  imper- 
sonal. Her  own  experience  taught  her  what  her  mother 
had  cost  her.  She  never  thought  of  that  little  life  that 
had  throbbed  in  unison  with  her  own  without  feeling 
anew  the  childhood  of  which  her  mother  had  robbed  her. 
She  would  find  herself  saying  aloud,  "How  could  a 
mother  do  it  ?"  Yes,  she  was  glad  her  mother  was  gone. 
In  the  new  world  in  which  she  found  herself  there  came 
to  her  the  slowly  dawning  consciousness  of  the  awful 
disgrace  of  her  mother's  life.  No  matter  how  pros- 
perous she  and  Jack  might  become  there  were  those  who 
would  remember  that  her  mother  had  been  sent  up  again 
and  again  for  drunkenness,  and  that  she  died  on  the 
street  drunk.  Tears  would  drop  when  Mary  went  over 
this  life  history  that  seemed  so  near,  and  yet  so  remote 
from  her  own  life.  All  her  life  she  had  given  her  love 
and  sympathy  to  her  father.  His  home  had  never  been 
more  than  a  place  of  shelter,  and  since  her  marriage  it 
had  been  more  neglected  and  disorderly  than  ever.  It 
was  over  now,  that  useless  struggle.  Her  father  would 
have  a  real  home.  It  would  not  be  long  before  Jack's 
wages  would  enable  them  to  have  another  room,  and  her 
father  would  come  to  them.  How  she  would  watch  over 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          249 

him.  All  this  had  gone  through  Mary's  mind  in  even 
these  last  days.  The  Sunday  afternoon  after  her  moth- 
er's funeral  Mary  heard  her  father's  step,  and  opened  the 
door. 

There  was  a  new  life  in  the  man ;  his  eyes  shone,  his 
step,  was  firm,  and  hope  was  evident  in  his  whole  being. 
Mary  was  surprised,  and  the  tears  ready  to  fall,  were 
driven  back.  Yes,  it  was  a  relief  to  know  that  her 
mother  was  dead,  a  relief  to  both  of  them. 

For  a  little  time  Mary  and  her  father  talked  of  the 
house,  Jacob  had  sold  it  and  was  moving  away.  What 
would  this  change  mean  to  them?  Then  at  last  Mary 
spoke  of  what  was  nearest  her  heart : 

"I  want  to  get  three  rooms,  father,  and  have  yer  with 
us.  Jack  wants  it  as  much  as  I  do.  Work  is  good,  and 
we're  saving  and  can  move  soon/' 

Mr.  Cahill  smoked  a  while,  and  then  answered  slowly. 

"No,  Mary.  You  and  Jack  is  better  alone.  I'll  stay 
where  I  am.  Kittie  Kerrigan — Mrs.  Donnelly,  you  know 
— came  in  when  I  got  home  and  made  me  go  to  dinner." 

Mary  frowned,  "Shure,  mother  never  liked  her, 
father ;  why  did  yer  go  ?" 

Mr.  Cahill  made  no  response  to  her  question,  but  went 
on:  "We  talked  a  good  deal,  and  I  told  Mrs.  Donnelly 
that  you  would  go  some  night  this  week  and  pick  up 
yer  mother's  things,  God  knows  there  isn't  much — and 
take  them  away,  or  give  them  away."  He  was  still. 
"After  you  have  them  out  of  the  house  I  want  yer  to 
put  it  in  order,  clane  it  a  bit,  I'll  stay  there.  I've  spent 
years  of  sorrer  in  them  two  rooms,  but  you  were  born 
there,  and  I'd  like  to  stay.  Mrs.  Donnelly  will  keep 


250  THE   STORY   OF 

the  rooms  in  order,  and  I'll  get  me  meals.  I've  done  it 
since  yer  left  me  and  when  you  were  little,  but  now  I 
can  pay  I'd  rather  keep  on  there.  I'm  wid  you  Sunday 
mostly,  and  you  won't  turn  me  out  now.  I'll  have  a  few 
years  of  peace,  and  I'd  like  them  there  where  you  were 
born;  I  often  see  yer  running  about  when  I'm  alone." 

Mary  went  over  to  him,  and  putting  her  arms  around 
his  neck,  kissed  him. 

"If  yer  get  tired,  father,  we'll  have  a  place  f er  yer,  for 
Jack  is  going  to  make  good  money.  Charlie  says  he's 
one  of  the  best  men  in  the  shop ;  the  boss  says  the  best 
he  ever  had  for  a  beginner.  I'll  soon  stay  home  now, 
for  Jack's  getting  good  money,  and  then  I'll  look  after 
yer  and  after  the  house."  A  wave  of  color  crept  into 
her  face.  Her  father  looked  into  her  eyes  humid  with 
unshed  tears  and  understood.  His  rough  hand  slowly 
passed  over  her  cheeks,  as  he  held  her  head  closer  to  him. 
"Shure,  Bridgy  will  look  after  her  and  she  won't  be 
starved  this  time,  Jack  has  work.  I  can  do  nothin'  fer 
her  but  love  her."  A  tear  dropped  on  Mary's  head. 

The  months  flew  by;  Jack's  wages  were  raised  more 
rapidly  than  he  expected.  The  boss  appreciated  muscles 
that  gave  a  man's  strength  for  boy's  wages ;  he  appreciated 
the  spirit  that  took  each  day's  work  as  a  step  toward 
to-morrow's  preparation.  Jack's  eyes  served  him  well. 
His  clumsy  fingers  were  compelled  to  obey  the  will  that 
looked  to  them  to  give  a  future  that  installed  Mary  once 
more  in  her  own  home.  Charlie  proved  a  friend  of  his 
word.  After  the  first  month  Jack's  presence  was  ac- 
cepted in  the  shop  without  comment.  There  was  one 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          251 

man  who  always  called  Jack  "a  sneak"  behind  his  back ; 
he  wanted  the  place  for  his  boy. 

The  day  came  when  Jack  was  receiving  a  man's  wages ; 
when  Mary  stayed  at  home,  and  had  to  train  her  fingers 
again  to  hold  a  needle,  to  learn  again  to  sit  alone,  away 
from  the  whir  of  machinery,  the  laughter  and  songs  of 
the  girls ;  to  face  again  that  future  still  mysterious,  but 
now  weighted  with  the  certainty  of  knowledge  that  did 
not  lessen  fear.  One  horror  was  gone.  Mary  was  in- 
sured, and  a  coffin,  a  name,  grave,  and  friends  to  stand 
about  it,  was  a  certainty  that  robbed  death  of  its  greatest 
fear  and  dread. 

The  home  of  Mary  and  Jack  bore  many  evidences  of 
prosperity,  and  the  lower  drawer  was  crowded  full  of 
the  evidences  of  Mary's  skill  with  the  needle  when  the 
child  was  born  who,  to  them,  would  always  be  their  first- 
born. That  unseen  son  was  but  a  vision. 

This  baby  was  a  girl.  Neither  felt  that  the  occasion 
was  quite  so  glorious  as  it  would  have  been  if  the  baby 
had  been  a  boy.  The  neighbors  agreed  with  them.  The 
men  were  inclined  to  sympathize,  telling  Jack  that  it 
could  be  borne  with  some  honors,  as  there  was  always  the 
boy  possible  in  the  future. 

When  Mary  left  the  shop  and  resumed  her  natural  re- 
lation, her  home  again  became  a  social  centre ;  the  girls 
from  the  shop  came  evenings ;  young  men  who  knew  Jack 
cultivated  his  friendship,  for  his  home  was  very  at- 
tractive with  the  circle  of  girls  Mary  drew  about  her. 

Bridget  was  even  more  devoted  than  ever  to  Mary 
and  her  family  after  her  mother's  death,  so  devoted  as 
to  lose  her  interest  somewhat  in  Kittie. 


CHAPTEE  XII. 

LIGHT    AND    DABKNESS. 

MARY  developed  a  power  of  self-reliance,  an  ability 
to  decide  and  plan  her  own  life  that  less  and  less  con- 
sidered the  opinion  of  those  about  her.  To  Bridget 
this  was  a  source  of  pride,  an  evidence  of  Mary's  ability. 
Mary  confided  to  Bridget  her  ambition  to  move,  to  have 
another  room  and  more  things.  Jack  found  it  more 
comfortable  to  reduce  his  daily  allowance  that  Mary 
might  add  to  the  sum  that  was  going  to  put  them  on  a 
level  with  the  most  prosperous  of  their  social  set.  He 
found  that  all  Mary  required  from  him  was  his  wage- 
earning  ability.  She  showed  conclusively  the  conscious- 
ness of  a  belief  in  her  own  powers  to  work  out  their 
salvation  alone,  if  only  he  would  do  his  part.  Before 
he  realized  it  he  found  that  in  the  world  about  him, 
outside  of  the  shop,  Mary  was  the  unit  of  their  home. 
He  accepted  it  but  he  resented  it,  a  resentment  that 
only  showed  itself  in  a  reserve  that  increased  the  dis- 
tance between  Jack  and  the  world  outside  the  shop. 
There  a  dogged  determination  to  hold  his  own  and  gain 
more  power  focused  attention  on  Jack. 

Gretchen  was  no  longer  a  neighbor.  Jacob  had  moved 
to  a  settlement  of  his  own  countrymen  in  the  great  city, 
and  concerned  himself  about  nothing  but  his  business 
and  the  affairs  of  his  district,  where  he  was  coming 
rapidly  into  prominence.  Men  who  wanted  place  or 
power  found  it  to  their  interest  to  cultivate  the  kind- 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          253 

hearted  German,  who  often  succeeded  in  turning  their 
confidences  to  his  own  advantage.  Gretchen  lived  in 
larger  rooms  over  the  new  store,  among  her  own  coun- 
trywomen. She  no  longer  troubled  herself  about  the 
stupid  language,  for  which  she  had  no  use.  On  Sun- 
days she  went  riding  in  the  glistening  buggy  with  little 
Jacob  on  a  stool  at  her  feet,  and  a  little  Gretchen  in  her 
lap.  The  rays  of  reflected  glory  shone  upon  her.  Her 
prosperous  husband  confided  to  her  that  he  was  aiming 
to  be  the  great  Burgomaster,  and,  knowing  Jacob,  she 
beamed  with  quiet  dignity  on  the  people  who  were  to  be 
so  honored.  Her  reticence  greatly  aided  Jacob  in  secur- 
ing information  imparted  by  other  confiding  husbands 
to  more  talkative  wives.  For  other  prosperous  and  am- 
bitious husbands  and  other  glistening  buggies  wended 
their  way  to  the  same  destination  on  Sunday  afternoons, 
where,  in  an  environment  that  suggested  Germany,  the 
citizen  and  his  family  kept  the  love  of  Fatherland  more 
than  a  tradition,  yet  to  have  been  compelled  to  return  to 
it  would  have  been  exile.  Here  the  adopted  citizens  gen- 
erously made  decisions  that  shaped  the  laws  and  the 
politics  of  the  great  city ;  they  were  a  power  that  must  be 
reckoned  with  by  other  party  leaders. 

Mary  and  Gretchen  drifted  apart  because  of  the  cur- 
rents of  life  in  the  city  where  the  ebbs  and  floods  make 
constantly  changing  coast  lines  and  islands  that  appear 
and  disappear  with  the  collection  of  rents. 

Jacob's  former  store  was  a  saloon.  The  proprietor 
lived  with  his  wife,  who  was  assistant  barkeeper,  in 
Gretchen's  old  rooms.  The  house  now  bore  no  marks  of 
distinction.  Like  its  neighbors,  the  front  door  stood 


254  THE  STORY  OF 

open;  the  oilcloth  was  worn  on  the  halls  and  stairs,  in 
which  children  played  at  their  own  sweet  will.  Light  is 
from  heaven,  but  the  poor  are  taxed  for  it  in  New  York. 
The  new  owner  expected  to  follow  the  Biblical  injunction 
and  build  greater.  He  was  to  build  a  new  Tower  of 
Babel,  for  such  the  old  house  had  become.  He  would 
cover  his  lot  and  reap  a  harvest  of  dollars.  The  authori- 
ties were  lenient  in  the  matter  of  repairs  in  a  house  to 
be  torn  down  in  a  year  or  two,  or  perhaps  three.  This 
kindness  the  landlord  fully  appreciated,  as  it  enabled 
him  to  demand  up-to-date  rents  for  a  house  that  had 
the  conveniences  and  improvements  of  thirty  years  be- 
fore. When  tenants  were  waiting  to  move  in,  the  raising 
of  rent  was  merely  a  matter  of  business.  Jack  now  paid 
two  dollars  more  a  month  for  rent  under  the  new  condi- 
tions. In  New  York  rents  increase  in  ratio  to  the  dis- 
comforts for  which  they  pay.  Mary  lived  apart  from 
her  neighbors.  She  was  too  thrifty  to  enjoy  the  woman 
who  had  moved  in  the  house  now  occupied  by  four  fami- 
lies, some  keeping  lodgers.  When  the  second  child  was 
born,  Mary  moved,  for  she  had  saved  money  to  buy  the 
things  for  which  she  had  worked,  and  to  the  acquiring 
of  which  she  had  bent  all  her  thought. 

Children  followed  at  regular  intervals  of  time  until 
Mary — fat,  with  her  front  teeth  gone,  entirely  indiffer- 
ent to  her  personal  appearance  at  home — was  the  busy 
mother  of  five. 

She  now  rented  a  whole  floor  and  sub-let  two  rooms  to 
lodgers,  reducing  her  rent.  Her  shrewdness  and  thrift 
had  made  her  a  successful  manager.  Her  parlor  con- 
tained a  whole  suit  of  furniture;  lace  curtains  draped 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          255 

the  windows.  On  the  walls  hung  crayons  of  Jack  and 
Mary,  drawn  by  an  artist  who  had  commercial  relations 
with  a  tea  house.  This  house  gave  coupons  with  each 
pound  of  tea.  A  certain  number  of  coupons  entitled  the 
holder  to  a  crayon  of  generous  size.  Of  this  liberal 
offer  Mary  had  availed  herself,  and  looked  forward  to 
the  time  when  five  other  crayons  would  complete  the 
family  gallery.  The  Brussels  carpet  on  the  floor  was  so 
self-conscious  that  you  never  could  forget  it  was  there. 
This  carpet  was  Mary's  secret  joy  and  delight.  The  two 
bedrooms  occupied  by  the  family  were  totally  dark  and 
unventilated.  But  no  member  of  the  family  was  at  all 
conscious  of  either  defect.  The  greater  number  in  the 
family  of  seven  had  no  recollection  of  a  window  in  a  bed- 
room. It  had  been  so  long  since  they  had  counted  one 
among  their  possessions  that  it  required  an  effort  of 
memory  for  Mary  or  Jack  to  recall  the  advantages  of 
light  or  air  in  that  room. 

Jack's  family  was  among  the  most  prosperous  in  the 
neighborhood.  Mary  was  its  acknowledged  foundation. 
Her  house  was  so  well  cared  for  that  she  rarely  had  a 
room  to  rent,  her  children  were  the  best  dressed  in  the 
neighborhood,  and  heir  husband  was  a  man  who  knew  his 
place  and  surrendered  his  wages  to  his  wife's  keeping — 
the  common  practice  of  the  best  husbands  in  their 
world. 

The  kindergarten  played  a  part  in  Mary's  develop- 
ment. When  her  third  child  was  born,  she  heard  of  this 
place  where  children  were  taken  care  of  for  part  of  a 
day  in  the  church  on  the  block  below.  The  eldest  child 
was  entered.  A  new  element  entered  into  her  life; 


256  THE  STORY  OF 

she  began  to  notice  styles;  to  measure  herself  in  ap- 
pearance; to  note  the  fact  that  there  were  younger 
and  better-looking  women  in  the  world.  Jack  had 
noticed  it  long  ago.  No  man's  wages  went  as  far 
as  his;  no  man  had  a  cleaner  home;  no  man  had  his 
meals  more  regularly;  no  man's  children  were  better 
dressed ;  but — yes,  Mary  was  a  bit  sharp,  and,  well,  she 
wasn't  fixed  like  the  other  women,  and  was  never  ready 
to  go  out. 

"Mama,"  her  oldest  girl  was  looking  at  her  critically 
one  holiday,  "why  don't  you  wear  corsets,  and  fit  your 
waists  like  Nora  and  Aunt  Bridgy?"  The  child  was 
quiet,  a  moment  followed,  "I  wish  you'd  get  nice  clothes 
and  go  out  like  other  girls'  manias.  Everybody  who 
comes  here  looks  better  than  you  do." 

"Can't  papa  earn  the  money  ?  I'll  go  to  work  and  buy 
my  mama's  things,"  interrupted  her  son  from  grand- 
daddy's  knee. 

Jack  thrilled  with  pride  two  weeks  later.  Mary  had 
a  new  set  of  teeth.  Sunday  she  put  on  a  new  dress  and 
hat,  and  her  first  pair  of  gloves.  Jack  was  a  proud  man 
as  the  neighbors  looked,  nodded,  smiled  at  each  other. 
Never  before  had  they  seen  Mary  in  a  bonnet.  A  calico 
dress  and  gingham  apron,  the  corner  of  which  provided 
all  the  head-covering  she  needed  to  go  to  the  grocer's 
or  butcher's,  varied  by  a  white  apron  to  mark  Sundays, 
had  been  long  familiar  to  the  neighbors.  Mary  estab- 
lished herself  on  a  higher  plane  and  brought  herself  into 
closer  sympathy  with  her  neighbors  by  the  revelation  of 
the  new  interest  in  clothes.  The  neighbors  saw  the  en- 
larging of  neighborly  interchange,  the  shopping  expe- 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          257 

ditions,  the  exchange  of  views.  It  was  a  great  day  in  the 
social  evolution  of  the  family  when  Mary  appeared  in 
her  new  hat  and  first  pair  of  gloves,  accompanied  by 
Jack  and  surrounded  by  her  children. 

The  newness  and  elegance  of  her  toilet  commanded  the 
individual  attention  of  the  members  present  at  the  next 
meeting  of  the  Mothers'  Club.  Mary's  good  judgment, 
the  years  of  training  in  making  undisputed  decisions  in 
her  own  home,  gave  her  a  self-reliance  that  made  her 
prominent  in  this  group  of  women,  and  a  guide  in 
social  matters.  At  the  first  election  she  was  put  into 
office.  Her  social  evolution  was  complete. 

By  the  time  her  baby  was  seven  years  old  her  older 
girl  was  talking  about  going  to  work.  Without  thought 
of  her  children's  future,  Mary  had  trained  boys  and 
girls  to  do  housework.  She  needed  their  help  to  main- 
tain her  standards  of  cleanliness  and  clothes,  and  com- 
pelled it,  and  compelled  the  intelligent  doing  of  the 
work  as  a  matter  of  economy.  No  other  woman  among 
this  group  of  mothers  could  command  her  time  as  Mary 
could.  There  was  born  in  her  a  love  of  power  and  leader- 
ship. Her  natural  intelligence,  her  habit  of  decision, 
often  put  as  able  women  at  a  disadvantage,  but  Mary 
had  come  to  the  front,  and  her  children  rejoiced  in  her. 
Jack  was  silent.  His  wages  did  not  go  so  far,  and  it 
often  happened  now  that  Mary  left  the  dinner  for  the 
children  to  manage ;  and  yet  Jack  was  conscious  that  his 
energetic  wife  added  to  his  prominence.  On  the  whole, 
Jack  approved,  secretly  knowing  that  Mary  had  not  even 
questioned  as  to  his  attitude  of  mind.  The  family 
aroused  public  attention  in  their  own  world.  Mary  was 


258  THE   STORY   OF 

being  rapidly  educated,  and  was  spreading  the  seeds  of 
knowledge.  The  women  of  the  neighborhood  found  a  new 
centre  of  interest.  They  were  learning  of  the  relation 
between  their  own  homes  and  the  administration  of  the 
city's  government.  The  Department  of  Health,  they 
learned,  was  to  prevent  sickness,  and  cellars  and  sinks 
became  of  interest.  The  Department  of  Street  Clean- 
ing was  a  department  of  personal  interest  and  concern, 
and  the  way  a  man  used  his  broom  or  collected  garbage 
called  out  comment  which  the  men  learned  to  dread. 
Parks  became  personal  property,  and  docks  more  than 
dumping  places.  Hunger  was  not  the  only  reason  for 
feeding  the  children,  and  what  they  ate  became  of  im- 
portance. Baths  were  no  longer  a  Sunday  rite,  but  a 
means  of  daily  grace.  Schools  were  of  importance, 
and  extravagance  in  other  directions  was  condemned, 
for  it  meant  fewer  schools.  Dark  school-rooms  were 
now  an  offense  to  every  mother.  The  kindergarten 
mothers'  meeting,  the  clubs  at  the  Settlements,  each  had 
their  co-workers  in  the  tenements,  but  none  a  more  vig- 
orous and  able  one  than  Mary. 

Her  moral  intelligence  was  dwarfed.  She  did  things 
that  caused  her  leaders  to  tremble;  her  lack  of  experi- 
ence made  her  judge  every  act  as  one  of  self-interest ;  her 
ambitions  made  her  crafty.  In  spite  of  all,  with  all  her 
weakness  and  her  strength,  Mary  helped  to  rouse  her 
neighbors,  and  it  became  a  fixed  fact,  never  lost  sight 
of,  that  the  city's  government  was  a  matter  of  personal 
interest  to  every  woman.  The  district  leader,  who  kept 
his  ear  to  the  ground,  heard  and  reported  at  headquar- 
ters. They  found  a  new  force  to  cope  with  that  lay  be- 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          259 

yond  their  personal  control.  They  found  that  the  repre- 
sentatives from  the  district  must  work  for  it — not  as 
formerly,  merely  getting  something  for  "the  boys/'  but 
creating  better  conditions — if  they  hoped  to  continue  in 
office.  The  voters  were  waking  up ;  their  prodding  was 
in  the  homes. 

During  the  period  of  development  Mary  kept  hold  of 
some  of  her  old  friends.  Bridget  poured  out  a  wealth  of 
love  on  Mary  and  her  children.  She  was  their  fairy 
godmother.  To  the  children  Sunday  afternoons  were 
indeed  the  golden  clasp  binding  the  weeks  together,  for 
"Aunt  Bridgy"  and  "granddaddy"  were  always  with 
them.  Their  mother's  voice  grew  softer,  and  their 
father  seemed  to  them  different  when  "granddaddy"  and 
"Aunt  Bridgy"  were  with  them. 

One  Sunday  night  when  Mary's  mother  had  been  dead 
a  year  John  Cahill  and  Bridget  McDonnell  were  going 
home  together.  He  suggested  that  they  walk  down  on  the 
old  dock ;  Bridget  protested,  but  John  was  insistent,  and 
Bridget  yielded.  As  they  sat  looking  at  the  river  listen- 
ing to  the  music  on  the  barges  and  boats  returning  from 
the  sails  and  excursions,  it  brought  back  thoughts  of  a 
time  when  they  danced  instead  of  watched  the  dancers. 

"Bridget,"  John  spoke  slowly,  "I  ain't  got  much  to 
offer  yer,  yer  know  that  widout  me  sayin'  it.  I've  got  a 
good  job  as  a  watchman,  and  I  could  care  f er  yer  well ; 
will  yer  marry  me?  We're  not  as  young  as  we  were, 
but  there's  many  years  of  life  left  us,  I  do  be  thinkin'." 

Bridget  looked  at  him.  There  was  no  pleading  in  his 
eyes,  nothing  to  indicate  any  depth  of  feeling,  nothing 


260  THE   STORY   OF 

to  win  a  woman  to  give  up  her  own  life,  to  yield  her 
freedom. 

"No,  John,  I  think  yer  can  get  along  widout  me.  Yer 
seem  comfortable,  and  I  don't  believe  Mary  would  like 
it."  Her  cheeks  were  crimson. 

"What  makes  yer  think  that?"  John  asked  anxiously. 
"Shure,  I  don't  believe  she'd  care." 

There  was  a  sad,  sweet  smile  around  the  woman's 
mouth  as  she  rose  to  her  feet.  She  looked  at  the  man, 
perhaps  he  read  in  her  face  something  of  her  feeling,  as 
she  commented,  "I  don't  believe  yer  care  much  yerself, 
John." 

They  walked  up  the  dock  together  and  parted  as 
quietly  as  though  no  important  question  had  been  asked 
and  answered  that  evening. 

Shortly  after  Bridget  went  to  her  room  Nora  tapped 
at  the  door. 

"I  won't  light  the  lamp  if  yer  don't  mind,"  was  her 
greeting  as  Nora  stepped  in. 

Nora  was  so  quiet  that  Bridget  recognized  trouble. 

"What  is  it,  Nora?" 

"Have  yer  seen  anything  of  Kittie  ?" 

Bridget  sat  up  straight  on  the  bed.  "No.  Where  is 
she?" 

Nora  was  crying. 

"Where  is  she?"  Bridget  demanded,  frightened,  yet 
not  knowing  why. 

"Hush,  don't  let  me  mother  hear  ye.  I  don't  know 
where  she  is.  She  told  me  she  was  going  with  Bob  to 
Eockaway  this  morning,  and  left  early." 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          261 

"  Well  ?"  Bridget  was  leaning  forward. 

"Oh,  Bridgy!  she  didn't  go,  fer  Bob  came  after  her 
this  afternoon,  and  said  they  were  to  go  at  three;  she 
was  to  meet  him  at  the  docks.  Me  mother  is  wild. 
Where  is  the  child?" 

The  two  women  sat  with  clasped  hands. 

"What  can  we  do,  Nora?  Where  can  we  look  for 
her?" 

"I  don'"t  know  where  on  all  God's  earth  to  look  for 
her."  Nora's  head  sank  into  Bridget's  lap. 

"God  help  her !" 

They  sat  listening  and  hoping  till  midnight.  There 
was  a  stealthy  step  on  the  stairs.  Bridget  opened  the 
door  and  called  softly,  "Kittie."  There  was  absolute 
silence.  Nora  hurried  into  the  hall,  her  arms  stretched 
out  in  the  darkness :  "Kittie ;"  she  touched  the  soft  little 
body  crushed  against  the  wall  at  the  turn  of  the  stairs. 
"Come,  dear."  The  tone  was  so  gentle,  told  the  sorrow 
of  her  sister  so  clearly,  that  Kittie  allowed  herself  to 
be  taken  into  Bridget's  room.  Still  she  was  defiant,  and 
Nora  felt  her  helplessness.  She  must  have  patience 
with  the  child. 

"Where  have  yer  been,  dear?"  she  asked,  pleadingly. 
"Who  have  yer  been  with  ?" 

Kittie  was  silent.  Had  Bob  come  to  the  house  when 
she  did  not  meet  him  ? 

"Bob  came  fer  yer,  dear,  and  you  were  gone.  Where 
were  yer  ?" 

"I  went  to  the  O'Keilly  picnic  with  the  girls." 

"Who  else?    Tell  me." 

"The  boss  and  two  of  the  girls." 


262  THE   STORY   OF 

Nora  fell  back. 

"Shure,  he's  married,"  said  Bridget  in  a  tone  of 
horror. 

"Well,  he  don't  live  with  his  wife  and  he's  never  going 
to ;  he  told  me  so  to-day." 

"Kittie,  do  yer  know  what  it  means?  Ye're  only  a 
child,  dear,  but  ye  must  know  he  can't  mane  ye  well,  a 
rich  man  like  him." 

"Goodness!  yer  make  the  biggest  fuss;  let  me  alone. 
He  can't  eat  me.  I'm  not  a  baby,"  and  Kittie  burst 
from  the  room. 

Her  mother  met  her  with  open  arms.  "Shure,  I 
didn't  know  where  yer  were,  darlint,  and  I  was  a  bit 
worried.  What  makes  yer  angry,  dear  ?" 

"Oh,  Nora  and  Bridget  jawing  and  fussing." 

"Don't  worry,  darlint;  it's  all  right  now  ye're  home." 

Again  and  again  during  the  year  preceding  good  open- 
ings had  been  made  for  Kittie  in  the  shop  with  her  sis- 
ters, but  she  would  not  change;  it  would  mean  going 
back  and  forth  with  them,  and  that  meant  curtailment 
of  Kittie's  fun.  No  joking  talks  with  her  boss.  She 
liked  him,  he  was  lots  of  fun.  "Indeed,  I'll  not  change. 
I  earn  good  money,  I  like  the  girls  and  I'll  stay  where  I 
am."  Not  even  when  Nora  urged  how  lonely  she  would 
be  after  Annie  had  married  Johnny  Murphy  would 
Kittie  relent.  Annie  was  too  absorbed  in  her  own  affairs 
to  interfere  with  Kittie.  She  was  making  a  great  match 
according  to  the  standards  of  her  social  set,  and  so  was 
somewhat  remote  even  from  her  own  family. 

Bob  was  almost  a  member  of  the  family ;  it  was  under- 
stood that  Kittie  and  he  would  marry  as  soon  as  Kittie 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          263 

was  willing  to  settle  down.  Nora  told  Bridget  after  one 
of  her  talks  with  Kittie : 

"Shure,  it's  foolish  to  worry  Kittie  about  changin'  jobs 
for  she  soon'll  be  givin'  up  work  herself."  Nora  hesi- 
tated. "  It's  only  that  I  don't  like  that  McGuire  girl 
and  the  boss.  The  boss  be  a  bit  too  friendly  with  Kittie. 
I  wish  she'd  come  with  me." 

Bridget  did  not  answer.  She  knew  that  Kittie  would 
follow  her  own  will.  Nora  was  worried  enough.  Why 
should  she  add  to  her  worries  ? 

Annie  went  on  with  her  preparations  for  her  mar- 
riage. All  the  family  conversation  centered  on  that. 
Kittie  half  resented  Annie's  superior  air,  and  announced 
one  night  after  she  and  Bob  returned  from  the  theatre : 
"That  other  people  could  marry;  Annie  did  not  have  a 
monopoly  of  privilege." 

Annie  looked  pleased.  "Are  you  and  Bob  goin*  to 
marry  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Let's  get  married  together.  I'll  wait."  Annie's 
face  was  aglow. 

"No,  I'm  not  in  a  hurry.  Fm  going  to  have  some 
more  fun,"  and  Kittie  danced  back  and  forth,  bowing 
to  her  mother  beaming  on  her  from  the  rocker. 

"Kittie,  I've  been  thinkin'  about  what  Annie  said 
about  yer  bein'  married  together.  It  would  be  fine, 
don't  yer  think  so,  Kittie  ?" 

Kittie  was  lying  with  her  head  on  Nora's  shoulder. 
"No,  I  don't,  Nora.  I'm  only  nineteen  and  Annie's 
twenty-five.  When  Bob  wanted  me  to  be  married  right 


264  THE  STORY    OF 

away  I  told  him  I  would  not,  and  I  won't."    Kittle 
nestled  closer  to  Nora  and  went  to  sleep. 

Nora  was  awake  for  hours  trying  to  imagine  what 
life  would  be  without  Kittie,  without  her  plans  and 
her  worries.  What  would  the  nights  be  when  she 
would  waken  to  find  her  arms  empty?  The  rings  of 
hair  curling  on  the  head  on  her  shoulder  were  damp  in 
the  morning. 

"My  hair  is  getting  more  curly;  I  wish  it  wouldn't/' 
announced  Kittie,  as  she  pulled  out  the  rings  of  hair 
about  her  forehead. 

But  the  contagion  of  bridal  arrangements  affected 
Kittie.  One  evening  sitting  in  the  park  she  agreed  to 
go  with  Bob  to  Eockaway  the  next  Sunday  afternoon, 
when  they  would  decide  their  wedding  arrangements  and 
tell  Nora  when  they  reached  home. 

"My  father  wants  me  to  marry  and  says  we  can  live 
home;  it  will  be  company  for  my  mother,  the  house  is 
so  large.  She  always  liked  you,  Kittie,  and  says  we  can 
just  have  a  good  time,  that  you're  young  and  ought  to 
have  a  good  time.  I  get  twenty-five  dollars  a  week 
now."  Kittie's  eyes  grew  big.  "We  can  be  happy;  I 
know  we  can.  You  belong  to  me,  Kittie;  you  always 
have.  I  never  went  with  any  girl  but  you.  You  do 
love  me,  Kittie  ?"  They  sat  in  the  park  cuddled  together 
like  two  kittens.  That  was  only  a  week  ago,  yet  when 
Kittie  thought  it  all  over  it  seemed  as  if  months  and 
months  must  have  passed.  Kittie  was  lying  on  the  sofa 
in  the  parlor.  She  refused  to  go  to  bed  with  Nora  that 
Sunday  night  after  the  failure  to  meet  Bob.  The  next 
day  Bob  passed  her  as  she  was  coming  from  work  and 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          265 

did  not  look  at  her.  Kittle  cried  herself  to  sleep  that 
night  in  Nora's  arms.  For  two  weeks  she  was  so  sweet 
and  gentle,  stayed  in  so  quietly  that  her  mother  was 
radiantly  happy. 

Nora  met  Bob  and  told  him  she  knew  Kittie  was 
sorry  for  what  she  had  done.  She  had  done  wrong  and 
knew  it.  Nora  was  sure  Kittie  would  tell  Bob  how 
sorry  she  was  if  he  would  come  to  the  house. 

Bob  came  that  night.  Kittie  was  dainty  and  sweet. 
No  evidence  of  shop  life  about  her  and  so  penitent  that 
Bob  called  himself  a  brute,  and  meant  it,  and  made  it 
clear  to  Kittie  that  he  was  the  offender.  She  forgave 
him. 

The  wedding  was  planned.  It  was  to  be  a  month 
later,  and  Bob  and  Kittie  would  go  to  Washington  on 
a  wedding  trip.  Bob's  father  insisted  on  that.  His 
father's  friends  there  would  see  that  they  had  a  good 
time.  Kittie  was  wild  with  delight. 

"Mother  wants  to  give  you  your  wedding  dress  just 
as  if  you  were  her  daughter." 

Kittie  almost  screamed  with  delight  and  kissed  Bob 
over  and  over  again,  sending  him  home  in  a  dream 
of  happiness. 

Kittie  kept  her  secret;  why  she  did  not  know.  Bob 
told  Nora  two  weeks  later.  The  family  were  delighted 
and  felt  as  if  they  had  not  been  fair  to  Kittie.  A 
week  before  the  appointed  time  for  the  wedding  Kittie 
gave  up  work.  She  sat  sewing  two  days  before  the 
wedding  day  humming  softly,  when  she  was  surprised 
by  Bob,  who  walked  in  even  before  she  could  say  "Come 

t/  X  «/ 

in,'r  to  his  knock. 


266  THE  STORY  OF 

He  was  very  white  and  his  hands  were  clenched.  He 
scarcely  spoke  to  her  mother,  but  walked  into  the  parlor 
in  which  was  Kittie's  white  wedding  dress  spread  out. 
He  closed  the  door  after  Kittie  and  faced  her.- 

"Kittie,  where  did  you  go  the  Sunday  you  said  you 
went  to  the  O'Beilly  picnic  with  two  of  the  girls  ?" 

Kittie  was  whiter  than  Bob.     She  did  not  answer. 

"Where  did  you  go?    Who  were  you  with?" 

"With  the  girls,  I  told  you."  Kittie  could  hardly 
hear  her  own  voice. 

"You  lie !  You  know  you  lie !  You  went  with  that 
scoundrel  Jim  Hollis,  and  spent  the  day  with  him,  and 
a  man  you  never  laid  eyes  on  before.  You  and  the 
McGruire  girl.  You  were  at  the  Ocean  House,  and  the 
McGuire  girl  got  drunk.  The  fellow  who  was  with 
Hollis  is  in  our  office,  Ned  Newman.  I  showed  him 
your  picture  when  I  asked  him  to  stand  up  with  me. 
He  knew  you.  He  hit  your  glass  of  wine  that  Hollis 
fixed  for  you  and  upset  it  on  the  floor.  Hollis  took 
you  away  about  three  in  the  afternoon,  and  Ned  didn't 
see  you  again.  Where  did  you  go  ?" 

Kittie's  eyes  grew  black  with  -  horror.  Slowly  the 
power  of  speech  came  to  her. 

"Bob,  Hollis  is  a  bad  man.  He  meant  harm.  I  don't 
know  what  to  say.  I  could  not  leave  him ;  I  wanted  to, 
but  I  had  no  money  to  get  home,  not  one  cent.  Bob, 
he  was  ugly  when  he  found  I  would  not  go  with  him 
except  where  there  was  a  crowd,  and  he  left  me  after 
he  bought  a  ticket  and  put  me  on  the  train.  I  came 
home  alone.  I  haven't  spoken  to  him  since/' 

"You  lie,  for  Hollis  told  my  friend — he  is  my  friend, 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          267 

for  if  he  had  not  told  me  I  would  have  married  you — 
Hollis  told  Ned  at  the  Club  last  evening  where  you  were 
and  showed  him  one  of  your  rings,  the  one  I  gave  you." 

Kittie  cried  out,  "Oh,  Bob,  he  took  it!  He  took  it 
weeks  ago,  one  day  in  the  office,  and  wouldn't  give  it 
back.  Where  does  he  say  we  were,  Bob  ?" 

Bob  blushed  as  he  looked  at  her.  "You're  more 
shameless  than  I  thought/' 

Kittie  tried  to  stand  up,  but  could  not. 

"Bob,  you  don't  mean  that !"  She  was  leaning  toward 
him,  her  baby  face  drawn  and  gray.  "You  don't  mean 
that,  Bob.  I've  always  been  true  to  you." 

Bob's  lips  were  trembling,  but  the  wrath,  indignation 
and  contempt  in  his  face  were  unmistakable.  A  scorn- 
ful smile  followed  his  glance  at  the  pretty  white  dress 
on  the  sofa.  "I  wonder  what  you'll  do  with  that? 
Hollis  has  a  wife  and  children." 

Kittie  slipped  to  the  floor  almost  at  his  feet. 

"Bob."    He  had  turned  to  the  door.    "Bob,  you  can't 

go.     I  was  going  to  tell  you.    I  didn't  know  till 

Bob,  you  must  marry  me.  I've  always  belonged  to  you. 
You  always  said  I  did.  You  know  you  said  since  we 
were  little  bits  of  things  I  was  your  wife.  I  have  been, 
Bob,  always,  you  know  that." 

Bob  waited,  the  agony  in  his  face  equalling  her  own. 
Kittie's  words  were  jerked  out  rather  than  spoken.  Her 
head  had  been  lowered,  but  with  a  desperate  marshalling 
of  her  strength  she  rose  to  her  knees,  tried  to  stand,  but 
could  not;  then  raising  her  face  with  hands  clasped, 
she  said  softly:  "You  must  marry  me  now,  Bob,  for 


268  THE   STORY  OF 

I  am "    She  stopped  and  sank  down  again,  covering 

her  face  with  her  hands. 

Bob  drew  himself  up,  clenching  his  hands.  Kittie 
waited.  <cYou  must,  Bob,  you  must;  you  cannot  leave 
me.  I've  been  your  wife  always.  You  said  so,  Bob, 
when  I  was  a  tiny  little  girl."  The  sound  of  her  voice 
was  like  that  of  a  little  child.  Bob  took  a  step  toward 
her.  She  moved,  her  dress  touched  a  photograph  lying 
face  down  on  the  carpet.  The  movement  turned  it  over. 
Bob  was  looking  into  the  face  of  Hollis.  He  laughed 
as  he  turned  to  the  door,  saying :  "You  better  send  for 
Hollis." 

Nora  found  Kittie  on  the  floor  when  she  came  from 
work.  She  took  her  in  her  arms,  and  there  with 
twilight  falling  about  them  Kittie  told  her  story. 

"As  God  is  my  judge,  your  sister  is  true."  Hollis 
was  in  his  office  facing  Nora. 

"Will  you  tell  Bob  so?  Will  you  see  the  man  who 
says  you  told  him  what  he  told  Bob  ?" 

"Yes.  It  was  deviltry.  There  was  no  truth  in  it. 
I'll  go  now." 

The  man,  contrite,  repentant,  ready  to  do  everything 
in  his  power,  left  his  office  to  meet  Bob  and  his  friend. 

Bob  listened,  the  scorn  deepening  in  his  eyes.  When 
the  man  had  finished,  Bob  turned,  asking  sarcastically : 
"Ned,  which  time  has  he  told  you  the  truth  ?" 

James  Hollis  walked  out. 

Kittie,  Nora  and  their  mother  lived  on  in  the  old 
rooms.  Kittie  worked  at  home,  Nora  and  Bridget  car- 
rying the  work  back  and  forth.  No  word  of  reproach, 
or  even  a  glance  of  reproach,  ever  fell  on  Kittie.  Nora, 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          269 

remorseful,  slaved  for  her.,  would  have  prevented  her 
working  if  she  could. 

"No,  Nora,  I  must  work.     I  must  do  what  I  can." 

A  beautiful  boy  baby  was  welcomed.  The  shadow 
was  not  dense  at  his  coming,  for  those  who  loved  Kittie 
knew  that  Kittie's  downfall  was  the  penalty  that  little 
children  sometimes  pay  for  being  born  in  tenements. 

Bob,  a  stern,  cold  man,  lived  a  lonely  life  away  from 
business. 

"He  did  love  a  very  nice  girl,  but  they  had  a  quarrel ; 
they  are  both  headstrong.  No,  he'll  never  marry,  unless 
it's  that  girl,  I'm  sure,"  was  his  mother's  explanation 
of  Bob's  indifference  to  girls.  It  was  always  her  hope 
that  Bob  and  Kittie  would  marry.  Kittie's  secret  was 
well  guarded.  Bob's  mother  never  went  into  the  old 
neighborhood,  that  was  part  of  his  father's  policy.  "If 
she  went  to  see  one,  she'd  make  feeling  if  she  didn't 
go  to  see  all  the  gang.  I  won't  have  her  go  at  all." 
Her  husband's  success  was  the  proof  of  his  wisdom. 
She  never  intruded  into  his  kingdom.  Her  four-story 
house  was  hers;  into  that  kingdom  her  husband  never 
intruded.  Bob  would,  it  was  evident,  be  more  success- 
ful than  his  father.  He  was  their  idol,  failing  them 
only  in  this,  that  he  did  not  marry.  If  the  father  ever 
heard  why  Bob  and  Kittie  did  not  marry,  he  never,  even 
to  Bob,  revealed  his  knowledge. 

Nora  came  once  in  a  while  with  Bridget  to  see  Jack 
and  Mary.  One  night  when  Nora  was  sitting  up  with 
Mary  when  one  of  the  children  was  very  sick,  they 
talked  over  the  old  days,  the  shop  and  the  girls.  Mary 


270  THE   STORY   OF 

spoke  with  deep  feeling  of  one  whom  they  both  knew 
as  unfortunate. 

"When  I  think  of  what  our  children  have  to  know 
and  see,  Nora,  my  heart  aches  for  them.  We  can't  save 
them,  for  we're  herded  like  cattle.  God  help  us." 

Nora  rocked  back  and  forth.  Kittie  lived  shut  in.  If 
only  there  was  one  place  she  might  visit  and  feel  the 
people  did  not  blame  her.  She  would  tell  Mary.  When 
the  story  was  finished  both  were  crying. 

"I'll  go  see  her,  Nora.     God  help  the  child." 

Mary  kept  her  word,  and  Kittie  found  that  even 
outside  the  walls  of  her  home  there  were  friends  who 
believed  her  true,  and  knew  she  sinned  in  innocence. 

So  strong  and  true  proved  the  friendship  of  Jack 
and  Mary  that  when  Kittie's  baby  was  born  Jack  was 
its  godfather,  and  woe  betide  the  woman  who,  in  Mary's 
presence,  reflected  on  Kittie.  Their  championship  cast 
a  heavy  shadow  on  Bob's  name. 

"Think  of  it !  He  left  the  poor  little  thing  one  week 
before  they  were  to  be  married,"  was  the  comment  that 
followed  Kittie's  appearance  wherever  her  story  was 
known. 


CHAPTEE  XIII. 

THE  MAKING  OF  A  CITIZEN. 

JACK  was  foreman  at  last.  He  accepted  his  promo- 
tion quietly,  for  he  scarcely  realized  any  change.  The 
old  foreman  had  delegated  his  duties  to  Jack  for  many 
months — he  had  so  much  business  at  the  corner  saloon. 
There  came  a  day  when  he  could  not  even  go  there  for 
the  transaction  of  business,  and  then  Jack  took  the  place 
he  had  held  by  proxy.  Shortly  after  the  owner  of 
the  factory  who  gave  Jack  his  chance  when  he  was 
barely  a  voter,  was  dead.  His  son,  who  at  the  time 
of  his  father's  death  had  come  to  the  dress-suit  stage 
of  clothes  and  the  bar-room  stage  of  pleasure,  repre- 
sented heights  of  pride  and  depths  of  mortification 
to  his  father.  And  yet  it  was  a  combination  which 
seemed  to  him  inseparable.  On  the  whole,  the  sight  of 
the  handsome  boy  in  a  dress-suit,  even  when  too  drunk 
to  stand  up  straight  in  it,  represented  to  the  honest, 
hard-working  old  man  social  heights  that  permitted  him 
reflected  glory.  The  father  owned  his  working  coat 
and  his  other  one ;  the  son  had  tailors'  bills.  The  former 
grumbled  and  threatened,  but  provided  his  son  with 
money  to  "travel  with  the  best  of  'em,"  as  he  expressed 
it.  The  wealth  of  his  father  astonished  the  son,  when 
made  known  to  him  through  the  provisions  of  the  will. 
He  found  himself  suddenly  desirable  where  he  had  been 
tolerated.  His  college  associations  had  opened  doors 


272  THE  STORY  OF 

occasionally  before  that  now  stood  wide  open  to  receive 
him  unaccompanied.  Love,  so  often  an  unconscious 
moral  agent,  changed  the  career  of  the  son.  He  awoke 
to  social  ambitions,  for  Cupid  was  sitting  on  the  rounds 
of  the  social  ladder  above  him.  His  club  memberships 
were  so  numerous  that  to  establish  himself  even  in  the 
memories  of  the  servants  left  but  a  few  hours  in  the 
morning  free  for  business.  The  men  who  served  the 
doting  father  loyally  served  the  son,  and  the  business 
held  its  own. 

At  home  there  was  a  change.  Jack  refused  now  to 
submit  to  the  control  that  had  done  so  much  to  put  the 
family  well  up  in  the  social  scale  in  the  neighborhood. 
Mary  wisely  conceded  the  freedom  she  saw  would  be 
taken  without  her  consent.  Jack  soon  counted  as  one 
more  of  the  men  who  congregated  in  front  of  the  favorite 
saloons.  He  did  not  enter  so  often  as  to  pass  ungreeted 
by  the  proprietor  and  his  deputy,  the  bartender,  when  he 
did  enter  the  saloon.  These  are  the  men,  not  the  drunk- 
ards, who  make  the  rank  and  file  of  the  party,  and  count 
in  the  municipal  battles  each  year ;  the  soldiers  who  stand 
shoulder  to  shoulder  obeying  orders  without  question. 
Jack's  position  gave  him  prominence,  for  many  of  "the 
boys"  were  his  men  in  working  hours.  A  dream  of 
greater  honors  came  to  Jack;  he  aspired  to  political 
leadership. 

But  Jack's  world  had  progressed  beyond  his  knowl- 
edge. Even  here  the  word  education  entered  every 
man's  vocabulary.  The  man  who  leads  now  must  possess 
this  in  reputation,  if  not  in  fact.  The  district  leader 
was  often  quoted  in  the  newspaper,  and  he  must  know 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          273 

how  "to  talk."  The  men  who  knew  nothing  of  grammar 
had  their  ears  trained  by  their  children.  The  children 
read  the  newspapers,  and  laughed  at  the  men  who  spoke 
only  the  language  of  the  district;  the  voters  resented 
the  ridicule,  but  demanded  in  their  leaders  that  it 
should  not  be  justified. 

Jack  long  before  this  period  had  hailed  the  day  when 
the  daily  paper  was  freely  illustrated.  He  got  soma 
idea  of  what  was  going  on  then.  There  was  another 
reason  deep  in  his  heart,  of  which  no  one  knew  but 
himself.  One  Sunday  morning,  after  his  little  girl  had 
been  going  to  school  some  months,  and  had  learned  to 
read,  she  watched  him  curiously  for  some  time,  as  he 
held  a  newspaper  in  his  hand.  Eunning  to  her  mother, 
the  child  said :  "Papa  read  bottom  side  up,  see,"  point- 
ing to  Jack.  Mary  slapped  the  child,  and,  snatching 
the  paper  from  Jack's  hand,  gave  him  his  first  and  last 
reading-lesson  by  pointing  to  the  title  at  the  top  of  the 
page.  Jack  never  pretended  to  Mary.  His  child  must 
never  know  the  truth.  After  this  lesson  Jack  dared  to 
buy  a  paper  and  boldly  unfold  it  in  the  shop.  That  was 
years  ago.  Now  he  even  dared  to  talk,  so  graphic  were 
the  pictures  each  day  on  the  pages  of  his  favorite  daily. 

The  trouble  with  Jack's  development  was  that  it 
was  not  homogeneous.  A  condition  always  uncom- 
fortable for  the  individual  and  dangerous  to  the 
State,  if  it  is  common  to  numbers  of  its  citizens  living 
in  groups  and  united  in  sympathies.  A  brain  at  the 
picture-writing  stage  of  culture,  with  a  heart  warm  and 
throbbing  and  responsive  to  emotional  appeals,  is  not 
such  a  safeguard  to  a  nation  in  time  of  peace  as  it  is 


274  THE  STORY  OF 

in  time  of  war,  and  yet  it  directs  the  bullet  that  helps 
to  make  or  mar  a  nation  under  either  condition.  Jack 
did  not  count  in  the  councils  of  the  district  leaders,  but 
he  was  made  happy  by  their  recognition  when  the 
municipal  campaign  opened.  Neither  Jack  nor  the 
great  district  statesmen  he  knew  were  ever  much  excited 
when  the  issue  was  a  mere  State  or  National  campaign, 
but  when  it  was  Billy  Smith — as  honest  a  man  as  ever 
stood  behind  a  bar — against  Dutch  Mike,  who  ran  a 
coal-yard  at  the  foot  of  the  street,  put  in  the  field  by 
those  blank  reformers,  then  to  be  an  American  citizen 
was  a  privilege  worth  any  man's  effort,  and  the  district 
would  make  as  many  as  possible.  Every  "boy"  was 
ready  to  fight  for  his  country  within  the  geographical 
lines  with  which  he  was  familiar.  He  felt  that  his 
manhood  was  tested  by  the  number  of  votes  polled  on 
the  right  side  on  election  day.  This  was  the  vital  test, 
the  only  test  recognized  by  the  Boss.  Jack  was  greeted 
with  enthusiasm  when  the  district's  interests  in  the 
Aldermanic  chamber  were  at  stake  and  its  representa- 
tive's honor  was  to  be  upheld,  or  when  its  representative 
forgot  to  look  out  for  "the  boys"  and  must  be  made  to 
feel  the  pressure  of  public  opinion.  At  the  beginning 
of  every  district  campaign  Jack  was  discovered  with 
enthusiasm  by  the  district  leader.  He  was  not  a  talker, 
but  it  was  well  known  that  the  man  who  wanted  to  keep 
a  job  under  Jack  voted  on  the  right  side.  Jack  re- 
sponded to  the  only  lever  he  knew  in  citizenship,  and 
gloried  in  his  loyalty  to  his  "principles."  The  party 
had  no  more  loyal  subject  in  the  district. 

Jack's  power  over  the  factory  was  supreme.     The 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          275 

success  of  the  factory  became  with  him  a  passion.  He 
knew  neither  time  nor  tire  when  its  interests  were  at 
stake.  This  supremacy  had  its  value  in  the  district,  in 
election  time,  especially,  when  a  foreign  foe,  under  the 
name  of  Eeform,  invaded  it.  Jack  thrilled  with  the 
sense  of  proud  distinction  when  Billy  Smith's  manager 
took  him  by  the  lapel  of  his  coat  from  the  centre  of  a 
crowd  of  the  boys,  and,  in  the  full  glare  of  the  electric 
light  and  in  sight  of  the  boys,  talked  long  and  confi- 
dentially with  him.  When  this  happened  three  times 
in  two  weeks,  the  boys  felt  sure  that  there  was  some- 
thing good  "in  pickle"  for  Jack,  and  treated  him  with 
new  deference. 

Mary,  unconscious  of  the  reflected  glory — for  Jack 
would  have  scorned  to  talk  politics  with  a  woman — 
washed,  ironed,  scrubbed,  made  and  mended  in  happy 
ignorance  of  the  honor  that  was  beginning  to  surround 
the  family. 

When  Jack  was  called  into  the  back  room  at  Billy's, 
where  the  district  leader  and  one  of  the  Boss's  close 
friends  were  in  conference,  it  was  an  open  question 
whether  Jack  was  in  for  the  Park  Commission  or  Street- 
Cleaning,  but  in  either  case  it  was  just  as  well  to  put 
one's  self  on  the  safe  side  by  recognizing  the  rising  man 
in  the  district.  There  was  no  question  as  to  the  party's 
success:  the  enemy  was  divided.  Jack  left  the  confer- 
ence with  such  an  air  of  importance  that  any  doubt  of 
his  place  with  the  powers  behind  that  door  disappeared. 
The  night  before  election  Jack  left  the  conference  held 
in  Billy's  back  room  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  held  in 
his  power  the  making  of  a  nation.  He  was  sent  to 


276  THE   STORY  OF 

use  his  influence,  and  another  commodity  which  had 
been  put  in  his  possession,  with  the  one  doubtful  man 
in  his  shop.  One  counted  in  this  election.  The  result 
in  the  district  was  doubtful.  This  voter  was  a  young 
man  who  from  boyhood  had  been  the  member  of  a  club 
connected  with  a  Settlement.  The  leader  of  this  club 
was  a  wealthy  man  but  a  few  years  older  than  the 
members  of  the  club.  The  closest  sympathy  existed 
between  the  members.  Sport  had  been  the  avowed  ob- 
ject of  the  club,  but  the  incidental  one  of  education  had 
played  a  far  larger  part  in  the  life  of  the  club  than  the 
members  realized.  Civic  questions  had  been  familiar 
topics  of  conversation.  The  college  and  professional 
friends  of  the  leader  were  known  intimately  to  the 
members,  who  had  listened,  argued,  talked,  sparred, 
walked,  and  visited  with  these  men  as  mutual  tastes 
drew  them  together  on  the  one  side  for  a  definite 
purpose,  of  which  the  other  was  unconscious.  These 
were  the  men  who  represented  Robert  Louis  Stevenson's 
definition  of  a  gentleman — "The  man  who  could  meet 
a  prince  without  being  overpowered,  and  a  coal-heaver 
without  overpowering  him."  They  were  now  heading 
the  reform  movement,  and  doubly  dangerous  because 
they  had  friends  in  the  district.  There  was  no  use 
calling  these  men  names  to  the  voters  in  the  district 
who  knew  them.  These  voters  knew  that  the  criminal 
habit  of  wearing  silk  stockings,  with  which  these  men 
were  charged,  had  not  weakened  brains  or  muscles,  and 
that  the  district  had  nothing  to  give  them.  Some  of 
the  voters  had  even  dared  to  assert  that  they  would  like 
to  arrange  a  bout  for  some  of  the  boys  who  were  proud 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          277 

of  their  muscles  with  the  wearers  of  the  silk  stockings, 
and  intimated  that  they  would  feel  sorry  for  the  boys 
when  the  silk  stockings  got  through  with  them.  Jack's 
man  had  laughingly  announced  that  he'd  bought  a 
bottle  of  liniment  to  be  ready  for  the  occasion.  Con- 
scious of  his  good  workmanship  and  his  honesty,  and 
with  all  his  social  relations  at  the  Settlement,  the  man 
was  unconscious  of  danger  to  himself  or  his  family  in 
the  exercise  of  his  prerogative  as  an  American  citizen. 
When  Jack  started  to  see  the  man,  he  knew  that  his 
wife  was  ill,  and  that  there  was  a  little  baby.  Jack  had 
known  the  wife  all  her  life,  and  was  startled  when  he 
heard  that  she  was  married;  to  Jack  she  was  still  "a 
slip  of  a  girl."  Jack  found  the  man  at  home  and  asked 
him  to  come  down  to  the  door,  where  he,  supposing 
business  was  the  occasion  of  the  visit,  was  surprised  by 
the  quick  introduction  of  politics.  Jack  did  not  waste 
words.  Wasn't  this  one  of  his  own  men?  The  man 
stood  firmly  in  his  allegiance  to  the  party  he  had  joined. 
This  angered  Jack.  He  dared  not  threaten  the  man 
with  discharge,  for  the  owner  of  the  factory  had  married 
the  daughter  of  one  of  the  leaders  of  the  reform  move- 
ment, and  he  knew  that  the  bright  and  far  better  trained 
man  mentally  would  make  righteous  use  of  such  a 
threat  and  appeal  to  Jack's  employer.  He  dared  not 
use  that  lever  to  accomplish  his  purpose  with  this  man. 
Yet  Jack  knew  that  his  power  with  the  men  in  that 
room  at  Billy's  depended  on  his  success  with  this  man. 
He  knew  that  the  man's  wages,  not  yet  at  the  full  limit, 
had  barely  met,  if  they  had  met,  the  expenses  of  starting 
housekeeping  on  the  installment  plan  of  buying  furni- 


278  THE   STORY   OF 

ture,  and  the  expenses  inseparable  from  his  wife's  ill- 
ness. Jack  felt  his  defeat  in  the  argument  of  words 
which  he  had  acquired  like  a  parrot  during  this  interval 
of  intimacy  with  the  leaders.  This  quick-witted  fellow 
had  profited  by  his  club  companionship.  He  pointed 
to  the  history  of  the  city  under  the  control  of  the  party 
Jack  represented;  to  the  history  of  its  leaders.  He 
even  tried  to  make  Jack  see  that  he  was  being  used,  and 
that  the  day  after  election  the  leaders  would  have  no 
use  for  him.  Jack  became  angry  at  this,  and  presented 
the  one  argument  the  leaders  believed  convinced  every 
man,  saying,  'What's  yer  price?  Is  that  it?"  Later 
Jack  picked  himself  up  and  went  home,  conscious  that 
the  day  of  his  political  preferment  had  passed.  He  was 
no  longer  in  the  line  of  succession. 

Business  became  duil  shortly  after  election,  and  Jack 
decided  to  lay  off  some  hands.  The  first  man  laid  off 
was  Donald  Donnelly,  the  young  man  who  had  taught 
Jack  and  the  district  leaders  that  there  were  some  men 
in  their  world  whose  price  they  did  not  know,  and  that 
it  was  dangerous  to  the  individual  who  tried  to  find 
out.  The  incident  was  barely  remembered  in  the  flush 
of  joy  over  the  great  victory  of  the  party — a  victory 
which  the  leaders  knew  was  due  to  lack  of  unity  in  the 
ranks  of  their  opponents,  though  they  claimed  it  on  the 
ground  of  good  management  by  the  leaders. 

The  slip  of  a  girl  went  out  one  day  two  months  later 
with  her  baby  in  her  arms,  and  left  it  at  a  day-nursery 
while  she  went  to  look  for  work.  Her  young  husband 
stood  at  the  corner  and  watched  until  the  door  closed 
on  them.  He  pulled  his  hat  over  his  eyes,  and  for  a 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          279 

couple  of  blocks  he  did  not  walk  steadily.  Work  had 
revived  in  the  shop,  but  not  enough  to  take  him  back, 
and  every  door  to  employment  in  the  district  seemed 
closed  to  him.  His  friends  lived  up  town,  and  their 
acquaintance  in  the  world  of  manual  laborers  was  lim- 
ited to  the  members  of  the  club.  In  their  follower's 
emergency  they  were  helpless,  except  to  offer  money. 
Don's  manner  made  that  impossible.  The  slip  of  a 
girl  was  Mollie  Mulligan's  sister  Alice.  Her  husband 
was  Donald  Donnelly,  the  son  of  Mrs.  Donnelly,  who 
to  her  old  friends  was  always  Kittie  Kerrigan.  • 

So  reticent  was  Jack  about  the  affairs  of  the  factory 
that  Mary  did  not  know  that  Donald  was  working 
under  him.  He  was  a  small  boy  when  Mary  married, 
and  only  his  name  would  have  recalled  the  boy  had 
Jack  spoken  of  him.  Mary  had  dropped  from  her  life 
the  people  who  knew  her  mother.  She  feared  greatly 
that  her  children  would  learn  what  her  mother  had  been. 
Jack  spoke  of  his  mother,  and  to  them  she  was  a  darling 
grandmother  such  as  they  read  about  in  the  books  they 
brought  from  the  library.  If  Mary  was  asked  any  ques- 
tions about  her  mother,  she  answered  so  shortly  that 
the  children  early  learned  not  to  refer  to  their  grand- 
mother Cahill.  Grandfather  Cahill  was  a  dear  visible 
presence  that  made  life  delightful  for  them  often,  and  a 
guarantee  of  what  grandmother  Cahill  must  have  been. 

Julia  came  in  one  day  greatly  depressed.  The  baby 
Charlie  was  now  walking,  and  Julia  carried  tenderly 
baby  Julia.  The  mother  and  children  were  well  dressed ; 
it  was  evident  that  prosperity  was  an  intimate  of  that 
family. 


280  THE   STORY   OF 

"I  was  coming  along  the  street  to-day  and  I  met  little 
Alice  Mulligan.  Yer  know  she  married  Donald  Don- 
nelly that  worked  in  the  factory." 

Mary  was  surprised :  "I  didn't  know  he  worked  for 
Jack.  He  used  to  be  a  nice  little  boy.  If  he's  as  nice 
now  she's  done  well." 

A  reminiscent  expression  settled  over  Mary's  face. 
Perhaps  Donald  and  his  wife  did  not  remember  about 
her  mother.  Her  mind  went  back  over  the  years:  she 
saw  the  lumber  pile,  and  heard  again  Mollie  Mulligan, 
"Yer  mother's  sent  up ;  yer  mother's  sent  up."  If  only 
she  could  keep  that  knowledge  from  her  children.  She 
had  taught  them  to  hate  even  beer,  and  was  training 
her  daughters  to  look  with  contempt  on  the  young  men 
who  were  seen  under  the  influence  of  liquor.  What 
would  they  say  if  they  found  out  that  their  grandmother 
was  a  common Mary  would  not  use  the  word. 

Julia  watched  her  face.  "Yes.  He's  been  working 
for  Jack,  I  guess,  ever  since  he  went  to  work.  Charlie 
got  Jack  to  take  him  before  he  went  to  the  office  of  the 
old  boss's  son." 

Julia  stopped.  It  was  evident  to  Mary  that  she  had 
something  more  to  say,  and  Mary  waited;  she  realized 
they  were  fencing. 

"Alice  had  just  been  leaving  her  baby  at  the  Nursery. 
She  got  a  place  in  your  old  shop ;  Bridgy  gave  it  to  her." 

"My  lands !  What  has  she  gone  to  work  for  ?  Does 
he  drink?" 

"No,"  Julia  spoke  slowly.  "Work  is  slack,  you  know, 
and  Don  has  been  laid  off.  He's  been  off  now  for 
weeks,  and  he  can't  get  anything.  The  baby  is  only 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          281 

two  months  old,  and  they  bought  their  furniture  in 
installments,  and  she  had  to  go  to  work  to  keep  it." 

Mary  looked  sharply  at  Julia.  There  was  something 
she  did  not  understand. 

"Were  there  many  laid  off?  Jack  never  speaks  of 
his  work." 

"Four.    Don  was  the  first." 

"Why  ?"    The  question  was  a  challenge. 

"Well,  Jack  and  Don  had  some  trouble  about  election. 
Mary,  if  you  only  would  get  Jack  to  take  him  back. 
Ally  looked  ready  to  drop,  and  her  eyes  were  red,  she 
cried  so  about  leaving  her  baby.  I  thought  if  you  would 
speak  to  Jack  he  might  give  him  a  turn  with  the  other 
men." 

"Shure;  I'll  speak  to  him  to-night." 

When  Jack  came  home  Mary  spoke  to  him  at  once. 
The  expression  in  Jack's  face  stunned  Mary.  "When  he 
does  an  hour's  work  in  that  factory  it'll  be  when  I'm 
dead." 

Even  the  children  were  startled,  for  they  never  heard 
their  father  give  expression  to  animosity.  It  was  part 
of  their  mother's  creed  to  avenge  real  and  fancied 
wrongs  and  slights,  but  their  father  never  had  "rows," 
and  because  of  this  his  influence  was  far  greater  with 
them  than  he  dreamed. 

When  Mary  and  Jack  were  alone,  Mary  again  spoke 
of  Donald,  and  asked  Jack  why  he  would  not  give  Don 
work.  Jack's  face  flushed,  he  made  several  efforts  to 
speak.  At  last  it  came  in  tones  bearing  their  message 
from  the  spirit  Mary  had  never  seen  roused  in  her 
husband  before. 


282  THE  STORY  OF 

"The  only  man  who  ever  marked  me  face  was  Don 
Donnelly,  and  you  remember  when." 

Mary's  eyes  blazed,  as  looking  into  Jack's  face  she 
echoed  his  tone.  "We'll  make  him  smart  for  it.  I  hope 
they'll  starve." 

Again  Mary  forged  a  link  to  bind  her  family  together. 
She  preached  the  only  creed  she  knew. 

"Bridgy,  I  hear  you  have  Alice  Mulligan  working 
for  you/' 

"Yes.  Poor  soul,  she  has  to  put  her  baby  in  the 
Nursery  and  go  to  work.  Her  husband  was  discharged 
because  he  wouldn't  sell  his  vote,  so  she  told  me.  If  s 
a  fine  pass  we're  comin'  to  when  a  man  can't  earn  his 
living  unless  he  votes  as  his  boss  tells  him.  When  he's 
workin'  for  the  city  it's  all  right,  but  to  work  in  a 
factory  and  not  do  as  yer  please,  shure  I  honor  the  boy 
for  his  pluck ;  she  didn't  tell  me,  but  some  one  else  told 
me  he  knocked  the  boss  down  when  he  offered  to  buy 
his  vote.  Shure  I  don't  know  who  he  was,  but  it  done 
him  good.  Don  did  right." 

Jack  left  the  room.  Mary's  cheeks  were  blazing. 
Bridget  became  conscious  of  a  change  in  the  atmos- 
phere, she  watched  Mary  moving  about  getting  ready 
to  go  to  the  park  with  the  youngest  boy,  who  had  coaxed 
Bridget  to  go  with  them,  knowing  it  meant  a  larger 
supply  of  peanuts  and  popcorn. 

"Go  down  to  the  door,  Tom,  and  wait,  I  won't  be 
long."  When  the  door  was  closed,  Mary  turned  to 
Bridget  the  very  spirit  of  revenge. 

"It  was  Jack,  Donald  Donnelly  knocked  down.  Jack 
went  to  him  quiet  and  peaceable  to  get  him  to  vote  for 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          283 

his  man.  Shure  I  don't  know  who  he  was,  but  Patrick 
Dooly,  the  Alderman,  had  promised  Jack  a  good  thing 
if  he  got  in.  Shure  Don  puts  on  a  lot  of  airs  learned 
from  his  silk  stocking  gang,  and  when  Jack  gave 
it  to  him  straight  about  the  way  they  use  the  boys, 
Don  gets  a  lip  on  him,  and  Jack  gave  it  back.  Don 
struck  Jack,  who  fell;  yer  mind  he  was  home  for  a 
week.  It's  his  wife  ye're  givin'  work  to  feed  the  saucy 
lazy  devil;  struck  Jack,  who  never  harmed  anybody  in 
his  life.  Them  that's  a  friend  to  her  can't  be  a  friend 
to  me." 

The  color  was  gone  from  Bridget's  face  before  Mary 
had  half  finished.  She  watched  her  back  as  she  put  on 
her  hat.  She  knew  what  Mary's  anger  meant,  she  had 
seen  it  in  its  smouldering  fire,  waiting  for  the  moment 
to  make  its  presence  felt.  In  all  the  years  of  her  love 
for  this  home,  Bridget  had  never  known  in  it  any 
words  but  those  of  confidence  and  love.  If  she  kept 
little  Alice,  Mary  would  never  forgive  her. 

"Shure  it  was  wrong  for  Don  to  strike  Jack,  but  Alice 
was  in  the  bed  upstairs.  What  was  she  but  a  baby 
herself?" 

There  was  no  comment.  Bridget  watched  Mary  mov- 
ing about  to  gain  time,  for  she  was  ready  for  the  street. 

"What  would  they  do  if  I  discharged  Alice?  She  is 
clever,  and  earned  four  dollars  last  week.  She's  an  inno- 
cent little  thing." 

Bridget's  mind  wandered  in  a  circle.  At  last  Mary's 
"Tom's  waiting,  I  must  go,"  brought  her  face  to  face 
with  a  new  phase  of  Mary's  relation  to  her.  She  knew 


284  THE   STORY  OF 

that  Mary  heard  Tom  coaxing  her  to  go,  and  yet  Mary 
said,  "I  must  go,"  counting  her  out. 

Mary,  with  unrelenting  manner  and  expression,  went 
out  the  door  to  the  street.  Bridget  followed.  There 
Mary  took  Tom  by  the  hand,  and  turned  to  the  cars 
without  a  word  or  look  toward  Bridget.  Tom  did  not 
speak;  he  knew  his  mother  in  this  mood. 

Bridget,  years  older,  walked  home.  The  next  day 
when  Alice  Donnelly  entered  the  shop,  Bridget  told  her 
that  work  was  short,  and  she  would  send  for  her  when 
she  wanted  her.  For  a  month  Bridget  did  not  go  to 
Mary's.  When  the  children  commented,  Mary,  by  a 
quick,  sharp  command,  silenced  them.  They  were  ac- 
customed' to  see  the  rise  and  fall  of  their  mother's 
intimacies,  but  Aunt  Bridgy  was  a  part  of  their  home 
life.  Never  had  their  mother  shown  such  feeling  as 
when  her  name  was  mentioned,  a  feeling  reflected 
in  their  father;  even  the  two  older  children,  though 
regulating  their  own  movements,  dare  not  go  to  see 
the  one  who  through  all  their  lives  had  represented  all 
they  knew  of  unfailing  and  unchangeable  tenderness. 
It  was  an  unhappy,  restless  family  that  Mary  governed 
for  that  month. 

One  Sunday,  a  month  later,  John  Cahill  went  boldly  to 
Nora's  and  asked  for  Bridget.  With  a  meaning  smile 
Nora  told  her  she  had  a  caller.  When  Bridget  went  into 
the  hall  the  parlor  door  stood  open.  As  Bridget  closed 
the  door,  John  Cahill  went  towards  her. 

"Bridgy,"  his  voice  trembled,  "I  want  you  to  marry 
me.  I've  made  a  good  home  fer  yer.  I  want  yer  to 
marry  me  now.  Yer  thought  I  didn't  care.  I've  always 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          285 

cared.  I  was  a  crazy  fool  once.  I  want  yer  now, 
Bridget,  and  I'll  work  fer  yer.  We'll  end  our  days  to- 
gether." 

His  eyes,  his  voice,  told  the  strength  of  his  feeling. 
The  years  had  dropped,  and  he  pleaded  as  youth  pleads 
in  the  intensity  of  passion  and  hope. 

"Come,  Bridget,  my  life  has  been  burdened.  I  need 
yer,  and  I  hope,"  his  voice  was  full  of  tenderness,  of 
love,  of  supplication,  "I  hope  yer  need  me." 

Bridget  leaned  forward,  and  John  took  her  in  his 
arms. 

"We  won't  wait;  we've  waited  too  long.  I'll  see  the 
priest,  and  in  a  month  ye'll  come  to  the  home  I've  made 
fer  yer.  Every  stick  new,  and  every  dish  from  the 
store  bought  fer  you,  Bridget,  and  paid  fer." 

"But  Mary,  John?" 

"She  has  her  own  home  and  children ;  we'll  make  our 
own  life."  In  the  twilight  they  talked  and  planned  as 
lovers  will,  and  life  lay  all  before  them;  age  was  for- 
gotten. 

When  John  had  left  her,  Bridget  went  to  her  own 
room.  Nora  tapped  and  entered. 

"He  came  for  you,  Bridgy?" 

"Yes,"  and  both  women  cried,  but  the  smiles  and 
tears  mingled  as  women  live  their  lives. 

"Marry  Bridget !"  Mary's  voice  was  expressive  of  every 
emotion. 

"Yes.  Three  weeks  from  to-day."  Mary  sat  speech- 
less. "I  wanted  her  long  ago,  and  she  wouldn't  have 
me.  I've  made  a  home  for  her  now,  and  she's  comin'  to 
it."  If  Mary  had  any  thought  of  protesting  she  gave  it 


286  THE  STORY   OF 

up  when  she  studied  the  erect,  determined  man  sitting 
on  the  other  side  of  the  table. 

Suddenly  the  years  rolled  back  and  she  heard  Jack 
saying,  "Did  yer  see  yer  father  and  Bridgy?  They 
were  more  than  children  when  they  met  last."  Mary 
thought  of  all  the  barren  years  that  had  come  between 
their  youth  and  age,  of  her  father's  lonely  life,  of 
Bridget's  years  of  work,  devotion  and  loneliness;  now 
there  would  be  a  home  and  love  for  both.  Into  Mary's 
heart  came  a  tenderness  that  rarely  found  lodgment; 
she  put  her  arms  about  her  father's  neck,  saying,  "I 
know  you'll  be  happy.  I'll  go  and  see  Bridget." 

"No,  Mary.  Let  her  alone.  Let  her  get  used  to  the 
thought,  and  then  yer  can  go." 

The  tone  of  decision  and  protection  was  unmistak- 
able. A  wave  of  jealousy  marred  the  moment,  but  the 
memory  of  the  bitterness  of  his  past  life  won,  and  Mary 
rejoiced  for  her  father. 

Bridget,  when  she  found  voice  and  strength,  put  her 
arm  about  Nora.  "I'll  tell  the  boss  to-morrow,  Nora. 
I'll  want  to  be  free  to  get  ready.  There's  no  one  in 
the  shop  that  knows  its  ins  and  outs  as  you  do,  and 
ye  can  go  right  on." 

Nora  was  too  conscious  of  the  loss  of  companionship, 
the  steady,  loyal  friendship,  the  protecting  love  for  Kittie 
and  her  boy,  to  rejoice  in  promotion  and  the  increased 
wages. 

"There's  one  thing,  Nora,  I  want  ye  to  do.  I  want  ye 
to  give  Allie  Mulligan  work.  I  did  wrong  to  lay  her  off. 
I  did  it,  and  I  was  ashamed  when  I  did  it.  I'll  go  there 
to-night  and  tell  her  to  come  to  work  in  the  morning. 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          287 

Don  was  shovelling  coal  Monday  and  Tuesday,  John 
says,  and  that's  all  they  had  last  week.  I'm  afraid  they'll 
lose  their  things.  Ye'll  keep  Allie,  Nora,  while  she 
needs  it;  she's  a  good  worker." 

Nora  nodded,  too  much  overcome  by  her  sorrow  to 
speak. 

"There's  one  thing  more.  I  want  yer  to  move  near 
John  and  me.  Kittie  must  go  into  the  shop.  I'll  keep 
the  baby.  She's  dying  by  inches  shut  in  here,  with  no 
thought  but  of  her  own  sorrow.  Every  time  she  looks 
at  the  boy  she's  looking  in  Bob's  eyes,  God  forgive  him." 

Bridget  stopped,  her  voice  broken  by  sobs.  "The 
sight  of  her  pretty  white  face  is  breaking  my  heart, 
Nora.  She's  dying,  shut  in  here,  with  only  us  three 
old  women  to  speak  to.  'Twill  be  hard  the  first  week, 
but  her  innocent  face  will  soon  stop  them;  the  child 
must  go  out,  Nora.  I'll  keep  the  baby  with  your  mother 
to  help.  John  says  the  Bradys  are  going  to  move,  and 
that'll  give  your  mother  the  first  floor,  which  she's  been 
wanting.  I  know  I'm  right,  Nora,  and  ye'll  listen  to 
me." 

Through  the  months  of  bitter  sorrow  and  disgrace 
Bridget  had  been  the  protection  of  the  family,  had 
earned  the  right  to  shape  their  future  movements.  Nora 
never  recovered  from  the  blow  of  Kittie's  revelation,  and 
had  lost  confidence  in  her  power  to  plan  for  the  future 
in  which  the  baby  was  an  ever  present  factor.  Bridget 
waited.  "Ye'll  do  as  I  ask,  Nora,  and  let  Kittie  go  out 
in  the  world  again." 

"I  hope  it  won't  kill  the  darlint.  Shure  she's  so  'fraid 
of  meeting  Bob  that  I  don't  know  as  she'll  go." 


288  THE   STORY   OF 

"You  lave  her  to  me  and  say  'yes'  to  what  I  say,  and 
Kittle  will  go." 

"I'll  go  see  the  Donnellys,"  and  Bridget,  tall,  alert, 
determined,  began  putting  on  her  hat.  "Say  nothin'  to 
Kittie  till  I  come  home." 

There  was  no  light  in  the  room  when  Bridget  knocked 
at  the  Donnellys'  door,  which  she  opened  in  response  to 
the  muffled  "Come  in,"  husky  and  faint. 

"My  lands,  ye're  dark  here ;  shure  yer  wouldn't  know 
yer  best  friend  in  this  place." 

"Oh,  Bridget,  have  yer  got  work  fer  me?  We  ain't 
had  milk  fer  the  baby  to-day." 

It  was  Allie  who  spoke,  and  she  was  in  Bridget's 
arms. 

"Yes,  child.  I  came  after  yer  to  come  in  the  morn- 
in'."  They  could  not  see  Bridget's  face,  but  it  was 
white  and  conscience-stricken.  This  is  what  she  had 
done  to  gratify  Mary. 

"Sit  down,  Alice,  I'll  come  back  in  a  minute."  Bridget 
hurried  down  stairs,  and  hunted  until  she  found  a 
place  where  she  could  buy  milk  and  bread  and  some 
cooked  meat.  "If  only  I  could  get  a  candle,  or  a  drop  of 
oil ;  they  must  have  a  light."  She  was  in  a  fever  of  ex- 
citement. "God  forgive  me.  Shure,  I  don't  deserve 
what's  come  to  me."  She  hurried  back,  and  got  a  bottle 
of  oil  from  Nora. 

"There,  now,  not  a  word.  If  I'd  have  spanked  both 
of  yer  when  yer  were  little  I'd  have  done  yer  justice. 
Yer  once  squirted  water  on  me  when  I  had  on  a  new 
dress,  and  then  ran  up  the  alley  to  get  out  of  sight. 
Now  eat  what  I've  brought  yer,  fix  the  little  feller,  and 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          289 

come  to  work  to-morrow.  Don'll  get  work  yet;  he's  an 
honest,  sober  man.  'Twill  not  hurt  ye  what  ye're  going 
through  if  ye've  got  any  brains.  Good-night." 

Bridget  closed  the  door  before  the  lamp  was  lighted, 
and  hurried  home.  Kittie  heard  her,  and  rushed  into 
the  room  after  her,  saying  between  kisses,  "I'm  so  glad, 
Bridget;  Nora  told  me,  but  what  will  we  do  without 
you?"  The  last  was  almost  a  wail. 

"Shure  ye're  not  goin'  to.  Ye're  goin'  to  move  with 
me ;  in  the  same  house.  I'm  goin'  to  take  care  of  Laddie 
with  yer  mother,  and  ye're  goin'  with  Nora  every  day. 
Shure  she's  never  been  alone  to  the  shop  these  twenty 
years;  you  must  go  with  her  and  lave  the  child  wid  yer 
mother  and  me." 

Kittie  could  not  speak.  Bridget's  heart  sank  as  she 
felt  the  little  fluttering  body  in  her  arms. 

"  'Twas  worse  than  I  thought.  Mother  of  God,  show 
us  what  to  do  f er  the  child.  Shure  it  wasn't  her  fault ; 
she  was  only  a  haby,  and  we  didn't  watch  her,  and  then 
we  let  her  go  too  free.  Show  us,  Mother,  how  to  help 
her,  and  keep  her  wid  us.  She's  one  of  yer  own.  Yer 
didn't  send  the  other  Mary  from  the  cross;  yer  saw  in 
her  heart,  and  yer  know  Kittie's.  Show  us  how  to  keep 
the  darlint." 

Bridget's  hand  was  smoothing  the  head  that  lay 
nestled  in  her  neck  as  she  prayed  silently. 

"Yer  must  do  it,  Kittie.  Yer  can't  stay  in  like  this, 
dear.  Yer  must  go  out  in  the  world,  and  face  it,  while 
yer  have  N.ora  to  help  yer.  Besides,  Kittie,  Nora'll  need 
yer  book  larnin'  now.  She'll  be  forewoman  in  my  place. 
She  knows  the  work  better  than  any  one;  ye  can  help 


290  THE   STORY   OF 

her.  She  needs  yer,  Kittie,  and  yer  must  go.  John  and 
me  will  stand  by  you  and  the  baby.  Shure  the  child'll 
be  asking  yer  soon  to  go  out  with  him,  and  what  can 
yer  do  ?  Go  to  work  to-morrow,  Kittie."  Kittie  shook 
her  head.  "But  yer  will  go  soon,  when  I  stop  going?" 
Kittie  nodded. 

"God  keep  yer,  dear,  and  the  Holy  Mother  stand 
close  to  yer,  and  help  yer  bear  the  trials  that  will  come. 
It  won't  be  long,  Kittie,  yer  always  had  friends." 
Kittie  was  crying  softly. 

The  days  flew,  and  the  evening  came  when  a  group 
of  friends  stood  in  the  parlor  of  the  rectory  about  John 
and  Bridget.  Mary,  Jack,  and  their  children,  Nora, 
Kittie,  their  mother  and  Laddie,  radiant  and  beautiful. 
The  bride  and  groom  walked  to  the  transformed  home, 
and  the  life  that  was  dreamed  about  in  their  youth  be- 
gan when  the  youth  about  them  called  them  old.  The 
days  were  crowded  with  work  for  Bridget,  for  Nora  and 
her  family  had  moved,  and  they  must  be  settled;  then 
there  was  the  baby,  who  had  been  a  tyrant  all  the  months 
of  his  life,  now  numbering  eighteen.  Kittie  thought  no 
one  saw  her  when  she  dashed  the  tears  from  her  eyes  as 
she  sat  at  work.  But  the  little  mother  was  seen  and 
love  replaced  pity,  as  pity  had  condemnation,  before  the 
week  was  out. 

It  was  raining  Saturday  night  when  six  o'clock  came. 
Kittie  stayed  late  with  Nora  to  finish  up  the  work  for 
the  week,  and  arrange  the  girls'  books.  When  they 
came  out  of  the  door,  a  tall  man  was  hidden  in  the  door- 
way opposite.  Nora  saw  him,  and  held  the  umbrella  low 
to  shield  Kittie,  who  was  clinging  to  her  arm.  The  man 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          291 

watched  the  two  struggle  in  the  storm,  and  how  the  little 
figure  bent  and  swayed  even  though  clinging  to  the  taller 
woman. 

Night  after  night,  when  darkness  shielded  him,  he 
stood  in  the  deep  doorway  until  the  two  sisters  left. 
When  they  worked  overtime  he  followed  them  on  the 
other  side  of  the  street.  Kittie  was  so  intent  on  getting 
home  to  the  baby  she  never  saw  him. 

One  Sunday,  in  the  spring,  Kittie  left  home  in  the 
morning  to  take  the  baby  to  the  park.  It  was  the  first 
time  she  had  gone  out  alone  with  the  boy;  she  was 
timid  and  yet  proud.  Who  would  not  be  of  the  sturdy, 
healthy,  happy  boy,  who  adored  the  little  mother  always 
so  dainty,  so  gentle  and  sweet ! 

The  car  sped  on  its  way  uptown,  the  boy  eager  and 
questioning  by  word  and  gesture ;  Kittie  so  intent  in  the 
boy  that  she  did  not  notice  the  people  who  entered  the 
car.  Two  men,  evidently  father  and  son,  boarded  the 
car  at  Fortieth  street.  The  younger  of  the  two  men 
stumbled  and  would  have  fallen  if  he  had  not  caught  the 
door,  when  he  saw  Kittie.  Even  this  did  not  attract 
her  attention,  for  she  was  tying  the  ribbon  on  the  boy's 
curls;  his  hat  was  in  her  lap.  The  older  man  looked 
at  his  son,  a  world  of  reproach  and  entreaty  in  his 
glance.  It  was  lost,  for  the  son  saw  only  the  little 
mother  wrapped  in  the  baby  boy  kneeling  beside  her. 
As  the  car  approached  Fifty-ninth  street,  she  adjusted 
the  boy's  hat,  and  took  him  in  her  lap,  lifting  him  to 
her  arm  as  she  signalled  the  car  to  stop.  The  younger 
man  sprang  to  his  feet.  Kittie  saw  him  for  the  first 
time.  The  tinge  of  pink  left  her  face,  and  she  stood  a 


292  THE   STORY   OF 

second  looking  into  his  eyes  as  though  she  had  never 
seen  him  before.  She  walked  through  the  car  holding 
the  baby  close  to  her.  The  baby  smiling  genially  over 
her  shoulder,  waved  his  chubby  hand  to  the  passengers 
as  his  mother  went  through  the  door. 

The  man  sank  into  his  seat;  the  older  man  dropped 
his  hand  on  his  shoulder.  When  the  car  had  gone  a 
block,  he  asked:  "Is  it  too  late,  Bob?"  He  was  not 
answered. 

Kittie  reached  the  curb,  sick  and  faint.  She  stopped 
the  car  going  down  town,  and  reaching  home  gave 
Laddie  to  Nora,  saying,  "I've  seen  Bob." 

She  shut  herself  up  for  the  rest  of  the  day  and  none 
intruded. 

Mary's  son,  John,  named  after  his  grandfather,  called 
on  Kittie  that  evening.  Charlie  had  found  him  a  place 
in  an  office  building  down  town,  where  he  had  charge 
of  the  building.  His  industry  and  intelligence  had 
proved  good  working  capital.  Under  the  influence  of 
the  men  with  whom  he  was  brought  in  contact,  his  man- 
ners, dress,  even  his  language  changed.  A  barrier  grew 
almost  imperceptibly  between  the  boy,  now  on  the  verge 
of  manhood,  and  his  family.  After  his  grandfather 
married  he  found  that  home  very  congenial.  The  baby 
was  an  unfailing  source  of  interest  and  amusement.  If 
Bridget  suspected  any  other  reason  for  young  John's 
devotion,  she  never  alluded  to  it. 

When  he  stopped  at  the  first  floor  that  night,  Bridget's 
eyes  were  bright,  and  she  chatted  volubly  with  her  hus- 
band. Kittie  was  unresponsive  to  her  caller,  not  nearly 
so  cordial  as  when  she  met  him  upstairs.  He  left  early 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          293 

when  Kittle  positively  declined  an  invitation  to  the 
theatre.  Again  and  again  he  called  until  his  mother 
heard  of  it.  Shortly  and  sharply  she  called  him  to  task. 

"Isn't  there  any  other  girl  for  you  but  that  one  who 
can't  hold  her  head  up,  with  a  child  on  her  hands? 
You'll  have  enough  to  do  to  support  your  own  when  you 
have  them.  Stop  going  there  now,  I  tell  you."  Mary 
had  been  too  angry  to  watch  her  son,  or  she  would  have 
discovered  her  mistake.  "Going  to  see  a  girl  who  dare 
not  lift  her  head.  Ye're  growin'  proud  when  yer  takes 
up  with  the  likes  of  her."  Now  she  saw  him.  Mary 
stopped.  She  was  not  talking  to  her  child,  but  to  a 
man  who  had  suddenly  sprung  into  being,  moved  by  a 
man's  passions,  controlled  by  a  man's  will,  in  a  world 
of  which  she  was  only  a  fraction. 

He  turned  to  the  door,  as  he  closed  it  a  mother's  voice 
rang  out,  "John,"  but  there  was  no  response.  She  sank 
in  a  chair  staring  at  the  closed  door.  Her  world  had 
become  chaos ;  her  son  had  cast  her  out  of  his  life.  She 
was  like  other  mothers  whose  weakness  she  had  held  in 
contempt. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

UNTO   THE  SECOND  GENERATION. 

MAMIE,  Jack's  and  Mary's  oldest  child,  pretty,  arro- 
gant, selfish,  was  only  thirteen  when  she  became  a  wage- 
earner.  But  factory  laws  did  not  concern  the  world  D£ 
which  Mamie  was  a  part.  It  was  known  that  there  were 
some  meddlers  uptown  who  were  trying  to  have  a  law 
passed  dictating  to  American  citizens  when  their  chil- 
dren could  go  to  work.  "The  boys"  had  made  their 
sentiments  known  and  the  Boss  would  look  after  the 
bill.  "Let  them  think  themselves  active;  they'll  let 
more  important  things  alone,"  was  the  political  phil- 
osophy of  the  region.  "At  the  right  time  the  bill  will 
be  shelved  for  another  year."  Events  proved  that  "the 
Boss"  was  a  prophet. 

The  child  was  awake  long  before  daylight  that  morn- 
ing, as  excited  and  happy  as  if  she  were  going  on  a 
picnic.  The  chief  cause  of  delight  was  that  school  was 
over;  she  was  beginning  a  life  of  freedom. 

Mamie  had  shared  with  fifty  or  more  other  children 
the  interest  and  vitality  of  the  several  class  teachers 
during  the  frequently  interrupted  school  life  of  seven 
years.  She  had  not  the  slightest  knowledge  of  or  love 
for  books.  The  world  of  books  for  her  held  only  a 
reader,  a  grammar,  an  arithmetic,  and  a  geography,  and 
the  use  of  any  one  of  them  she  had  never  discovered. 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY  295 

The  variation  in  the  size  of  the  type  on  the  pages  of  a 
newspaper  confused  her  mind,,  and  she  adopted  her 
father's  picture  method  of  interpreting  the  news  of  the 
day. 

Mamie  now  entered  the  world  with  which  she  felt 
kinship — a  world  that  appealed  to  her,  and  one  she 
could  understand — the  world  of  work  and  wages.  Its 
possibilities  were  limitless.  There  were  girls  who  earned 
eight  dollars  a  week,  and  some  who  made  even  ten.  She 
had  never  seen  these  multi-millionaires,  but  others  had. 
Not  a  doubt  of  reaching  the  eight-dollar  limit  was  in 
her  mind.  "A  dollar  and  a  half  a  week  is  'most  a 
quarter  of  that/'  she  thought  bravely  that  first  day.  The 
very  thought  straightened  her  little  spinal  column,  and 
caused  her  to  treat  her  brother,  who  had  no  such  im- 
mediate prospects,  with  mild  toleration.  She  ate  her 
breakfast  of  bread  and  strong  coffee  with  her  father, 
and  hurried  off  to  work  with  the  girl  whose  mother  was 
in  her  mother's  club.  This  girl  was  a  very  Solomoness 
of  wisdom.  She  had  reached  the  advanced  age  of  fifteen 
and  had  worked  for  two  years.  She  had  long  given  up 
counting  the  number  of  shops  in  which  she  had  worked, 
or  the  industries  of  which  she  had  at  least  caught  a 
glimpse.  She  could  tell  accurately  the  kind  of  boss 
or  forelady  any  man  or  woman  she  found  in  the  positions 
would  make.  She  began  Mamie's  education  at  once 
by  imparting  numberless  injunctions  as  to  the  things 
she  could  and  could  not  do.  Long  before  Mamie  reached 
the  shop  she  knew  that  Jennie  was  proud,  that  Lottie 
was  mean  and  Katie  sly ;  that  there  was  not  a  girl  in  the 


296  THE  STORY   OF 

shop  Mamie  could  trust  but  her.  Mamie  could  tell  her 
everything  safely. 

The  crowd  of  carts,  of  trucks,  and  of  workers  in  the 
under-world  of  wage-earning  was  awake  and  moving 
rapidly  before  Mamie  reached  that  thoroughfare  which 
she  had  often  heard  but  never  seen — Broadway. 

Beyond  this  the  two  workers  entered  a  narrow  door 
and  ascended  two  nights  of  wooden  stairs,  dark  and 
dirty.  The  hallways  were  inclosed  on  either  side  with 
wooden  partitions.  On  the  third  floor  Mamie's  guide, 
protector,  and  friend  opened  a  door,  and  Mamie  entered 
the  field  of  her  first  triumphs.  She  was  stared  at  with- 
out the  slightest  attempt  at  concealment  by  the  twenty 
or  more  girls  getting  ready  to  work.  Mamie  was  to  be 
the  "forelady's"  errand  girl,  her  friend  having  been 
promoted.  Going  back  and  forth,  fetching  and  carrying, 
bringing  messages,  standing  about  hearing  the  gossip 
and  complaints  of  the  girls,  the  jokes  of  the  ''boss"  with 
his  forewoman,  Mamie's  education  was  rapid,  if  the 
road  was  not  royal.  She  discovered  at  once  the  rivalry 
between  the  forewoman  and  the  designer,  and  before 
the  week  was  over  had  decided  that  the  forewoman  was 
the  one  to  "tie  to."  In  the  same  period  of  time  she  had 
emancipated  herself  from  the  guiding  hand  of  the  girl 
who  had  secured  her  the  place,  and  before  the  month 
was  out  she  patronized  her.  Mamie,  it  was  recognized, 
had  a  pull  with  the  forewoman,  and  reaped  full  benefit 
in  favors  from  less  fortunate  workers. 

That  first  Saturday  night,  when  Mamie  gave  her 
mother  her  envelope  with  her  week's  wages  inside,  she 
would  not  have  changed  places  with  any  one  on  earth. 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          297 

The  heights  beyond  were  clear  to  her.  They  were  to  be 
reached  by  the  natural  ascent  of  more  wages.  Her  mind 
was  so  perfectly  adjusted  that  she  would  have  given 
you  to  understand  in  a  few  minutes  that  wages  were  a 
mere  matter  of  years  until  the  highest  were  reached. 
She  would  have  demonstrated  by  countless  living  ex- 
amples that  her  theory  was  true.  When  you  were 
thirteen,  you  got  so  much ;  and  when  you  were  twenty, 
you  got  so  much.  You  didn't  get  any  more  wages  after 
twenty  because  you  got  married,  or  were  'most  married. 
Mamie's  economics  were  formed  on  the  simple  theory 
of  life  from  observation.  Her  deductions  were  not  dis- 
turbed by  complex  contradictions.  She  considered 
workers  as  known  units.  She  knew  nothing  of  the  past, 
cared  nothing  for  the  future,  except  as  it  concerned  her- 
self. There  was  a  vital  present,  of  which  she  was  the 
centre. 

Sundays  all  this  world  slipped  away.  The  forewoman 
gave  her  bits  of  ribbon,  lace,  velvet,  and  other  dress 
goods.  She  picked  up  pieces  from  the  floor  about  the 
cutting-tables.  At  first  she  asked  for  these;  in  a  short 
time  she  took  them  as  perquisites. 

Mary  saved  all  the  large  bits  for  a  possible  future  use, 
but  the  child  kept  the  smaller  pieces.  Sunday  morning 
she  would  take  out  the  treasures  she  was  allowed  to 
keep,  and  her  doll.  Wonderful  were  the  toilets  in  which 
this  doll  appeared.  When  Mamie  came  down  to  the 
street  with  the  doll  in  her  arms,  every  mother  of  a  doll 
in  the  neighborhood  rushed  to  see  her  only  to  envy  her. 
Mamie  had  attended  the  sewing-schools  Saturday  morn- 
ings, gaming  skill  in  the  use  of  her  needle.  Her  taste 


298  THE  STORY   OF 

was  developed  by  her  environment;  she  was  a  worker 
who  loved  her  work  even  at  this  age. 

The  dull  season  came,  and  Mamie  went  to  work  in 
a  paper-box  factory.  This  place  she  found  herself,  and 
entered  without  an  introduction.  The  factory  was 
somewhere,  her  mother  knew,  near  the  North  Eiver, 
but  she  did  not  know  the  street  or  number. 

At  fourteen,  without  consultation  or  explanation, 
Mamie  had  found  work  at  the  change  of  each  season 
and  established  herself  in  her  mother's  confidence  and 
regard.  Her  envelope  was  given  each  Saturday  night 
unopened  to  her  mother — the  test  of  filial  duty,  the 
measure  of  affection.  There  was  no  increase  in  the 
bank  account  because  of  the  increase  of  income.  There 
were  more  indulgences ;  Mamie  had  more  flowers  on  her 
hats,  and,  as  was  her  due,  more  dresses.  If  the  children 
worked,  they  must  have  the  benefit,  was  Mary's  ideal 
of  the  parental  relation,  and  benefits  meant  pleasures 
and  clothes. 

Mamie  was  an  important  member  of  the  family,  and 
popular  in  the  neighborhood.  She  trimmed  hats,  and, 
when  on  good  terms,  helped  to  make  dresses.  In  Mamie 
her  mother  had  a  social  ally.  The  boy  next  older  one 
day  announced  that  he  had  a  place,  confirming  in 
Mary's  mind  the  superiority  of  her  children. 

The  second  girl  became  restless.  She  saw  the  liberty 
wage-earning  gave  her  sister,  and  she  pined  for  like 
privileges.  Each  day  she  scanned  the  want  columns  of 
the  newspapers.  At  last  her  opportunity  came.  She 
applied  for  the  position  of  cash-girl  at  an  East  Side 
department  store. 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          299 

There  must  have  been  an  interval  of  time  in  which  the 
Boss  was  pursuing,  or  on  a  journey,  or,  peradventure, 
asleep,  for  a  certificate  was  demanded  showing  that 
Tressy  was  fourteen,  of  sound  body,  and  had  attended 
school  a  specified  time.  Tressy  did  not  have  the  cer- 
tificate and  could  not  get  the  place.  The  child  con- 
fided to  her  mother  her  intention  and  the  reason  of 
failure.  Jack  and  Mary  rose  in  their  wrath.  "The  law 
tell  them  what  their  children  could  and  could  not  do ! 
They'd  see  about  it." 

The  child  got  her  certificate.  Her  mother  swore  she 
was  fourteen.  There  was  a  new  bond  between  the 
mother  and  child.  The  mother  was  Tressy's  ally  against 
the  world,  and  they  won.  Mary's  eyes  snapped  when 
she  thought  of  the  law's  dictation ;  she  straightened  her 
back  in  triumph  when  she  thought  how  cleverly  and 
easily  she  defied  and  conquered  it.  Mary's  mind  and 
morals  did  not  develop  in  harmony.  Her  leaders  at  the 
club  were  wholly  unfamiliar  with  her  moral  develop- 
ment. The  club  life  gave  them  no  clue  to  the  moral 
standards  governing  this  woman's  life,  for  she  needed 
their  confidence  to  attain  her  own  ends  in  the  club ;  was 
wary  and  shrewd  and  their  education  did  not  fit  them  to 
meet  Mary  at  her  moral  level. 

Mary  and  Jack  were  very  proud  of  their  children. 
They  were  impudent,  defiant  at  times,  did  not  speak 
the  truth,  and  were  often  lawless  where  parental  govern- 
ment was  concerned.  At  times  they  could  not  be  con- 
trolled; they  had  a  power  in  their  own  hands.  The 
envelope  holding  the  week's  wages  represented  it.  This 
would  be  yielded  willingly  while  their  wishes  were  duly 


300  THE   STORY   OF 

considered.  The  wage  envelope  regulated  parental  con- 
trol; it  was  never  carried  by  Mary  to  the  breaking- 
point.  In  a  general  way,  Mary  knew  where  her  children 
were  working,  but  never  definitely;  her  children  man- 
aged their  own  business  affairs  ably.  Mary  saw  results. 
It  was  results  that  were  important,  and  for  results  she 
had  fixed  standards. 

Mary  could  not  be  deceived  by  her  daughters;  she 
remembered  her  own  wage-earning  days.  She  profited 
by  that  hapless  experience;  so  did  her  children.  Jack 
soon  proved  his  inability  to  cope  with  the  new  genera- 
tion. When  authority  was  accepted,  Mary  was  the 
dictator. 

The  children  loved  their  father,  but  his  life  was  lived 
in  the  factory,  not  in  his  home.  There  he  made  no  de- 
mands, held  no  opinions  which  concerned  them. 

As  compared  with  the  children  of  the  families  they 
knew,  Jack's  and  Mary's  parental  pride  was  justified. 
"No  children  kept  themselves  more  steadily  at  work; 
earned  better  wages,  were  in  closer  touch  with  the  fore- 
woman or  boss,  than  their  children;  they  did  not  need 
parental  guidance  or  protection  to  find  work;  they  did 
not  need  parents  in  the  business  world ;  they  were  fully 
equal  to  its  demands  and  charges. 

As  the  years  passed  Mary's  attitude  toward  her  home 
changed.  She  was  not  consciously  ambitious,  but  she 
greatly  enjoyed  the  distinction  which  the  holding  of  an 
office  in  her  club  gave  her,  not  only  in  the  club,  but  in 
the  neighborhood.  The  office  was  her  opportunity  to 
prove  her  ability  and  it  was  by  the  natural  force  of  her 
ability  that  she  acquired  prominence.  The  club  was 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          301 

limited  in  membership ;  even  membership  conferred  dis- 
tinction. To  be  selected  by  the  select  was  prominence. 

Her  system  of  living  was  never  disturbed  by  any 
effort  of  the  would-be  philanthropists.  If  Mary  made 
any  change  in  her  system,  it  was  because  she  saw  money 
value  in  it,  the  only  value  of  which  Mary  had  any  clear 
conception.  It  was  wholly  beyond  her  comprehension 
that  any  human  being  should  make  sacrifices  for  an- 
other without  thought  of  return.  Her  neighborly  efforts 
in  time  of  trouble  were  based  on  the  fact  which  she  saw 
demonstrated  constantly,  "that  you  never  know  when 
your  time  may  come."  It  was  a  bank  of  good  fellow- 
ship on  which  she  might  have  to  make  drafts,  so  she 
made  her  contribution  so  efficiently  that  her  opinions 
became  decisions  in  the  family  and  for  the  neighbor- 
hood. The  fate  of  more  than  one  family  had  been  de- 
cided by  Mary,  whose  ignorance  and  moral  deadness 
made  her  often  unconsciously  cruel.  Prosperity  had 
made  her  unsympathetic;  the  morality  of  her  children 
as  she  understood  morality  was  a  proof  of  the  foolish- 
ness of  those  who  failed.  Generosity  that  left  the  givers 
crippled  aroused  her  contempt. 

If  Mary's  activities  had  changed  her  standards  had 
not.  Her  daughters  knew  that  the  parlor  was  always  in 
order.  They  invited  their  friends  freely  to  their  home. 
Jack  left  all  this  side  of  life  to  Mary;  he  rarely  sat  in 
the  parlor  that  was  the  family  pride.  As  the  children 
grew  more  active,  Jack  became  less  and  less  of  a  figure  in 
the  family  life,  except  as  a  financial  prop  and  stay. 

The  increase  of  income  in  this  family  through  the 
constant  increase  of  the  wage-earning  capacity  of  its 


302  THE   STORY   OF 

members  enlarged  the  social  opportunities  of  the  family. 
Bicycles  were  the  possession  of  each  member,  and  the 
piano  a  family  possession.  The  one  they  learned  to  use, 
the  other  their  friends  used.  Expending  money  for  edu- 
cation in  any  form  was  wholly  opposed  to  Mary's  phil- 
osophy of  life.  If  they  could  have  learned  to  use  the 
piano  as  they  had  the  bicycles,  it  would  have  held  the 
same  place  at  the  end  of  a  month  in  their  affection  and 
interest.  Its  value  lay  in  the  mark  of  distinction  it 
conferred  on  the  family.  The  daily  paper  gave  them  all 
the  literature  that  interested  them. 

This  was  the  state  of  development  of  the  family  when 
it  counted  three  wage-earners  besides  the  father.  The 
lodgers  were  still  kept  to  reduce  rent,  and  Mary  was 
still  the  housekeeper,  and  to  that  degree  a  fifth  wage- 
earner  in  a  family  of  seven  occupying  four  rooms. 

Outside  factors  bade  fair  to  change  the  life  of  the 
two  younger  children  still  in  school.  Libraries  had  been 
introduced  in  the  schools,  and  supplementary  reading 
was  a  feature  of  school  work.  Even  the  older  children 
were  silenced  when  the  lessons  of  these  younger  ones 
were  brought  forward.  Jack  sometimes  sighed  as  he 
heard  the  boy  and  girl  complain  as  they  leaned  over 
their  books  getting  ready  for  the  next  day's  work  in 
school.  He  was  conscious  that  they  knew  his  limita- 
tions, even  when  he  turned  the  pages  of  their  books 
with  greatest  interest.  There  was  not  a  child  in  the  house 
who,  in  his  most  daring  moments,  did  not  recognize  the 
danger  of  lifting  this  veil  from  their  father's  life. 
There  was  a  limit  to  their  mother's  tolerance.  The 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          303 

father  might  be  ignored ;  he  could  not  be  criticised  with 
safety  in  their  mother's  hearing. 

The  older  girls  had  come  under  a  new  influence. 
When  Mamie  was  about  twenty,  she  heard  some  of  her 
shopmates  talking  about  their  club.  She  asked  some 
questions.  In  a  month's  time  Mamie  was  a  member  of  a 
working-girls'  club.  Here  for  the  first  time  she  met  the 
people  of  that  other  world;  she  stood  face  to  face  with 
young  women  whose  going  and  coming  were  items  for 
the  society  columns  of  newspapers.  Tressy  was  intro- 
duced, and  became  a  member  of  the  same  club.  Life 
opened  at  a  new  level.  The  manners  that  had  to  them 
represented  the  best  were  first  questioned,  then  rejected, 
and  the  new  accepted  in  their  stead.  Trimming  disap- 
peared from  hats  and  dresses  until  severe  outlines  repre- 
sented the  new  standards  of  taste.  They  cultivated  the 
young  men  they  knew  who  seemed  of  the  type  that  would 
stand  the  club  test.  Their  mother  slowly  awakened  to 
the  fact  that  her  place  was  changed.  She  lived  with  the 
uncomfortable  feeling  that  her  children  were  taking 
notes,  and  some  of  them  were  of  disapproval.  Her  voice 
grew  sharper,  and  her  authority  was  asserted  with  the 
result  of  producing  friction. 

When  Josie,  the  youngest  daughter,  approached  the 
age  at  which  the  daughters  of  this  family  went  to  work, 
two  firm  voices  declared  it  was  not  to  be  thought  of. 
"Josie  must  go  to  school  longer." 

<fYon  do  well  enough  with  what  you  got,"  was  the 
proud  protest  of  the  mother. 

CfYes,  but  we'd  do  better  if  we  knew  more,"  was  the 
unexpected  reply. 


304  THE   STORY   OF 

"Perhaps  yer  think  we  didn't  do  well  fer  yer,"  was 
the  daring  rejoinder,  with  inward  consciousness  that 
she  had  failed  at  least  in  part  as  a  mother,  for  the  veil 
was  being  rent  and  Mary  was  seeing  more  clearly  as  the 
world  about  responded  to  the  new  teaching. 

"Mother,  you  did  well — as  well  as  you  knew  how. 
But  things  is  different  now,  and  you  know  it ;  Josie  must 
go  to  school  longer/'  was  the  firm  announcement. 

"Perhaps  you  want  to  make  a  teacher  of  her  ?" 

"Perhaps,"  was  the  quiet  response.  Mary  faced  her 
first  defeat  in  the  management  of  her  family,  and  talked 
the  louder  to  conceal  her  consciousness  of  it. 

The  younger  boy  presented  a  problem  they  could  not 
solve.  He  had  grown  up  in  the  street — at  first  as  a 
baby  under  the  care  of  his  sisters.  As  the  demands  of 
the  family  and  the  social  opportunities  of  Mary's  new 
departure  claimed  more  of  her  time,  he  was  his  own 
master  when  not  in  the  school  the  half  day  for  which  the 
authorities  made  provision.  He  viewed  this  privilege 
with  such  contempt  that  he  frequently  escaped  paying 
his  respects  for  several  half  days  at  a  time.  Intellectu- 
ally this  was  but  a  trifling  loss;  morally  it  worked  his 
undoing.  His  mother  viewed  half-day  school  privileges 
with  open  contempt,  and  felt  justified  in  utilizing  the 
boy's  services  when  she  could  in  the  work  her  duties  as 
housekeeper  involved.  As  he  grew  older  more  and  more 
of  these  duties  were  delegated  to  him ;  they  provided  the 
reason  for  not  finding  him  suitable  employment.  This 
system  produced  the  family  problem,  Tom.  He  disliked 
anything  that  required  continuous  labor  or  thought,  and 
refused  all  work  that  involved  either.  He  would  do 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY         305 

odd  jobs  that  provided  him  with  spending  money,  but 
at  sixteen  he  defied  all  control. 

One  night  he  did  not  come  home.  Mary  sat  by  the 
window  listening  to  every  footfall.  While  she  waited  her 
life  passed  in  review.  Mary  weighed  herself  in  the 
scales  of  the  world  about  her  and  found  herself  wanting. 
To  adjust  the  scales  would  require  moral  effort  of  which 
Mary  was  incapable.  She  was  not  self-deceived;  she 
knew  that  mental  habits  would  not  change.  Her 
shrewdness  was  her  social  protection.  She  must  not  be 
found  out.  Faint  glimmerings  of  failure;  acts  for 
which  she  blushed;  kindnesses  paid  by  unkindness,  sel- 
fishness that  approached  dishonesty,  and  once  even  that. 
Was  this  her  punishment  ?  A  blackness  settled  over  her 
that  shut  out  every  gleam  of  proud  success  that  had 
stimulated  her  life.  Mary  saw  that  there  was  a  success 
she  had  not  striven  for,  and  now  her  baby  was  the  sacri- 
fice that  must  be  paid.  A  boyish  figure  turned  the  cor- 
ner, and  walked  stumblingly  and  with  difficulty  toward 
the  house.  Mary  flew  down  to  the  door.  Jack  followed 
her.  They  undressed  the  bold,  self-reliant  boy,  now 
helpless;  again  he  was  the  baby  they  put  in  their  own 
bed  because  he  was  sick.  Sitting  beside  him,  through 
their  tears  they  watched  the  swollen  face  of  the  boy — • 
Mary  now  knew  to  be  a  neglected  boy — till  the  morning 
light  came  through  the  closed  shutters.  The  circle  of 
experience  was  widened;  Mary  and  Jack  were  coming 
into  fuller  sympathy  with  their  neighbors,  whose  chil- 
dren and  management  had  been  objects  for  Mary's  freely 
spoken  contempt.  Life  was  educating  this  father  and 
mother. 


306  THE   STORY  OF 

The  older  sisters  were  thoroughly  roused.  They 
talked  over  their  brother  with  one  of  the  leaders  in  their 
club.  She  suggested  that  Tom  should  come  to  the  next 
reception  and  meet  her  brother ;  perhaps  Tom  could  be 
induced  to  join  the  club  at  the  Settlement  in  which  her 
brother  was  interested. 

This  brought  the  first  open  rupture  between  Jack  and 
his  daughters.  He  remembered  that  it  was  one  of  these 
very  club  members  that  had  downed  him  on  the  very 
verge  of  power.  His  boy  should  never  go  there.  Their 
father  had  never  controlled  them,  he  was  not  to  them  an 
authority.  They  had  defied  their  mother,  they  did 
again. 

The  boy  was  bribed  by  a  coat  with  tails  to  be  his  the 
night  he  went  to  the  club  reception.  The  month  passed 
and  he  was  a  prominent  member  of  his  club.  He  boxed 
so  well  as  to  command  attention.  A  professional  was 
to  give  lessons  at  the  club,  and  Tom  decided  he  must 
take  them.  He  went  to  work  to  earn  the  money,  New 
wants  were  born  that  to  be  gratified  must  be  paid  for. 
Wages  became  an  object  with  Tom  for  what  they  would 
buy.  His  social  interests  were  transferred  from  the 
street  to  the  club ;  and  Tom  was  on  the  social  ascent. 

When  Tom  first  grudgingly,  then  enthusiastically,  fol- 
lowed his  sisters,  Mary  awoke  to  the  fact  that  her 
scepter  was  passing  from  her  hands  in  her  own  family. 
The  social  interests  of  her  children  were  outside  the 
home  except  with  a  few  intimates  with  whom  she  never 
felt  at  ease. 

Jack  lived  his  life  undisturbed  by  the  change  which 
had  been  so  gradual  that  it  was  evolution  in  which  he 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          307 

had  no  part;  his  social  life  for  years  had  been  apart 
from  his  home. 

The  time  had  come  to  Mary  when  she  stood  alone  in 
her  family.  No  member  of  it  called  on  her  for  sym- 
pathy or  commanded  her  interest;  she  arranged  the 
home,  did  the  work,  served,  but  in  the  outside  world  her 
children  stood  apart. 

John  had  always  treated  his  mother  with  respect  and 
had  always  spoken  freely  of  his  social  life.  She  had 
known  where  he  was  going  and  who  with,  though  his 
companions  were,  to  her,  mere  names  often.  It  was  this 
which  had  made  John  a  source  of  comfort  to  her.  While 
she  did  not  share  in  his  social  life  in  or  out  of  the  home 
any  more  than  in  that  of  Mamie  and  Tressy,  she  was 
in  touch  with  their  social  life  through  him.  Kittie  was 
the  only  girl  she  knew  that  he  knew.  Since  that  evening 
when  she  had  spoken  her  mind  on  his  relations,  present 
and  future,  with  Kittie,  John  had  never  taken  his 
mother  into  his  confidence.  She  had  driven  John  from 
her  just  when  she  needed  him  most;  when  she  found 
that  the  world  she  knew  and  the  world  in  which  her  chil- 
dren lived  were  widely  apart.  She  managed  the  home; 
her  judgment  and  common  sense  in  practical  affairs 
were  appealed  to,  but  she  was  a  stranger  to  the  social 
life  of  her  children.  John  cut  himself  off  entirely  from 
his  home  except  as  a  place  to  eat  and  sleep  after  his 
mother's  comments  on  his  attentions  to  Kittie. 

Mary's  intimacies  had  always  been  of  short  duration, 
now  there  was  no  one  to  whom  she  could  appeal  for 
sympathy.  Jack  loved  Kittie  and  had  always  defended 
her.  Bridget  loved  her  as  her  own  child.  Mary's  dog- 


308  THE   STORY   OF 

matism  had  changed  her  father's  relation  to  her,  while 
Bridget  had  never  resumed  her  relations  since  the  time 
Mary  demanded  Alice  Donnelly's  discharge.  That  was 
a  revelation.  Mary  never  stood  to  Bridget  in  the  old 
relation.  Mary  knew  in  her  heart  that  Jack,  her  father, 
and  Bridget,  would  gladly  welcome  Kittie  in  the  rela- 
tion of  John's  wife.  She  alone  opposed  it.  Mary 
faced  failure  for  the  first  time.  Failure  where  she  had 
been  so  confident  of  success — the  ability  to  control  her 
family. 

Another  problem  was  in  the  home.  For  months  the 
elder  daughter  had  been  strangely  quiet  when  not  nerv- 
ously excited  and  irritable ;  even  Jack  noticed  her  condi- 
tion and  commented  on  it.  One  evening  when  Mamie 
had  been  more  excited  than  usual,  Mary  spoke  to  her, 
demanding  to  know  where  she  was  going.  It  was  so 
long  since  their  mother  had  questioned  them  that  both 
girls  were  surprised.  When  she  repeated  her  demand 
Mamie  resentfully  replied  "With  some  girls." 

"Where?" 

"It  doesn't  matter,  mother,  you  wouldn't  understand. 
I'm  going  with  people  who  are  swell,  and  you  could  not 
know  them." 

"I'm  going  with  you."  Mary  rose  in  her  wrath.  She 
was  clutching  at  her  lost  throne. 

Concealing  her  fear  that  her  mother  would  do  what 
she  had  threatened,  Mamie  slowly,  in  a  perfect  imitation 
of  her  mother's  manner  when  deciding  family  questions, 
but  wholly  unconscious  that  it  was  so,  replied: 

"If  you  do  I  will  never  enter  this  house  again."  The 
tone  carried  finality.  Her  mother  dropped  on  the 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY         309 

lounge  broken  and  old.  Her  children  were  casting  her 
aside ;  she  was  helpless.  In  yielding  to  them  only  could 
she  hold  them.  The  two  girls  dressed  in  new  clothes 
walked  out  conscious  of  triumph  and  glorying  in  it. 
The  struggle  had  been  long  and  sometimes  wearing.  It 
was  over. 

"He  said  his  people  think  us  all  right,  but  that  it 
would  never  do  for  them  to  see  father  and  mother.  He's 
going  to  tell  his  people  in  a  month  or  two  that  we  are 
married,  by  that  time  we  will  have  money  enough  to 
furnish  a  flat.  Mother  will  row  about  the  envelope,  but 
I  can  stand  it  until  I  can  tell  her  I'm  married.  You 
can  do  better  than  marry  Jim  Brady.  I  wish  you  would 
wait  until  I'm  housekeeping.  George  says  he  has  lots 
of  nice  friends.  They'll  be  coming  to  us,  and  you  might 
do  better  than  take  up  with  him.  My  lands !  I  couldn't 
marry  a  man  who  got  his  clothes  so  dirty." 

Tressy  was  silent.  Her  cheeks  were  red  and  her 
eyes  flashing  under  their  lids;  her  love  for  her  sister 
made  her  keep  silent  at  this  time  when  separation  was 
so  near.  Tressy  had  more  self-command  than  Mamie; 
she  was  of  Jack's  temperament.  That  her  self-command 
was  being  severely  tested  at  the  present  moment  would 
have  been  evident  to  Mamie  had  she  not  been  so  centred 
on  her  own  affairs. 

The  two  sisters  boarded  a  car  going  uptown;  they 
left  it  above  the  Park  at  a  corner  where  two  well  dressed 
gentlemanly  looking  men  were  waiting  for  them. 
Mamie's  manner  lost  its  arrogance  and  self-assertive- 
ness  ;  as  she  looked  into  the  face  of  the  taller  and  better 
looking  of  the  two  men  it  became  gentle,  trustful  and 


310  THE   STORY   OF 

loving.  The  man  showed  a  protecting  care  and  tender- 
ness that  revealed  the  lover. 

Tressy  was  deeply  moved.  Her  escort  found  no 
response  to  gay  sallies  and  grew  quiet.  The  party  of 
four  ascended  a  stoop  not  far  from  the  corner.  Almost 
as  soon  as  they  entered  the  parlor  a  man  in  clerical  dress 
followed  them  in,  briefly  greeted  them  and  in  a  direct 
and  business-like  manner  he  produced  a  book,  asked  the 
groom  some  questions,  who  replied  as  promptly. 

"Well,  that's  all.  You  may  stand  here/'  pointing  to 
the  bay  window. 

Mamie,  white  and  tremulous,  was  led  to  the  place  in- 
dicated, the  taller  of  the  men  taking  his  place  beside 
her.  Tressy  stood  close  to  her,  her  girlish  face  respond- 
ing to  every  emotion.  She  began  to  doubt  the  wisdom  of 
Mamie's  marrying  secretly;  she  rebelled  against  the 
reason  that  any  other  way  would  bring  their  father  and 
mother  before  the  new  friends,  new  family  of  which 
Mamie  would  now  be  a  member. 

Tressy  had  yielded  because  Mamie  had  always  guided 
and  directed  her.  They  were  intimate  friends,  neither 
ever  having  so  close  an  intimacy  with  any  outside  friend. 
Now  it  would  be  different.  If  their  father  and  mother 
were  not  good  enough  for  the  family  into  which  Mamie 
was  going,  she  would  not  be;  she  would  not  go  where 
her  father  and  mother  could  not  be  received.  It  was  all 
so  sudden  that  she  had  consented  to  Mamie's  plan  before 
she  had  time  to  think ;  and  now  Mamie  was  leaving  her ; 
yes,  it  was  that.  The  tears  fell  fast  by  the  time  the 
minister  was  congratulating  the  bride  and  groom,  using 
their  hands  as  though  they  were  pump  handles,  and 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          311 

with  the  same  feeling  apparently,  smiling  all  the  time 
a  wooden  smile,  his  feet  already  pointing  toward  the 
door.  It  was  prayer  meeting  night  and  a  board  meeting 
after,  and  his  day  had  been  so  filled  that  preparation  for 
both  had  yet  to  be  made.  He  would  never  see  these 
people  again  and  was  in  a  hurry  to  attend  to  what  were  to 
him  important  matters. 

The  newly  made  man  and  wife  found  themselves  on 
the  street  somewhat  confused  by  the  rapidity  with 
which  their  relations  to  life  and  to  each  other  had  been 
changed.  There  was  an  embarrassing  silence  and  then 
Tressy,  in  a  broken  voice,  said: 

"I'm  going  home." 

"No,  Tressy,  what  will No,  we  will  walk  in  the 

park  and  then  go  home  as  usual." 

The  bride  and  groom  were  soon  happily  oblivious  to 
all  about  them,  planning  a  future  which,  had  Mamie 
been  less  happy,  she  would  have  noticed  excluded  all  she 
had  known  in  her  past  life.  She  loved  the  man  she  had 
married,  a  traveller  for  the  suit  house  in  which  she 
worked.  He  represented  to  her  another  world ;  she  only 
knew  it  from  his  description  of  it,  and  her  imagination 
had  colored  it  far  beyond  his  recognition.  Their  mother 
was  in  bed  when  the  two  daughters  came  home.  When 
Mamie  and  her  mother  faced  each  other  the  next  morn- 
ing each  was  conscious  of  a  chasm  that  separated  them. 
It  widened,  until  two  months  later  when  Mamie  an- 
nounced her  marriage,  her  mother's  rage  brought  the 
rupture  Mamie  wanted.  She  would  come  and  see  her 
father  and  mother,  but  they  must  never  come  to  her; 
that  she  could  not  risk.  Her  husband's  family,  as  she 


312  THE  STORY  OF 

had  told  Tressy  after  meeting  them,  "was  elegant;  they 
kept  a  girl/'  and  her  manner  made  it  clear  to  Tressy 
that  Mamie  thought  she  would  soon  attain  the  same 
heights. 

As  completely  as  if  a  grave  instead  of  an  uptown  flat 
contained  Mamie  did  she  disappear  from  her  former 
home  and  neighborhood.  Tressy's  loyalty  to  Jim  Brady 
was  an  offense,  and  three  years  later  Tressy  did  not 
know  where  her  sister  was  living.  It  would  have  been 
difficult  to  identify  the  pretty,  efficient,  well-dressed  and 
devoted  mistress  of  an  eight-room  apartment,  directing 
a  servant,  the  wife,  of  whose  social  abilities  the  money- 
making  young  husband  was  so  proud,  as  Mamie,  the 
little  thirteen-year-old  girl  who  went  out  to  earn  her 
living  so  proudly  one  morning ;  who  thought  the  earning 
of  eight  dollars  a  week  the  height  of  felicity.  Now  she 
objected  to  the  manners  of  the  girls  behind  the  counters, 
always  had  a  grievance  against  them,  and  with  her 
friends  condemned  the  foolishness  of  the  working  girls 
who  imitated  fashions  so  closely.  Sometimes  in  the 
midst  of  her  prosperity  her  heart  cried  out  after  her 
own;  but  she  dared  not  follow  the  promptings  of  her 
heart  for  she  had  built  up  for  the  friends  of  her  new  era 
a  family  in  the  West,  the  head  of  which  had  lost  money 
suddenly,  and  she  must  not  produce  bodily  even  to 
herself  her  family,  not  even  Tressy  for  whom  she  almost 
pined.  In  the  process  of  time  the  family  of  her  imagina- 
tion in  the  West  became  more  real  than  those  of  the 
rigidly  ignored  periods  of  her  childhood  and  youth. 
There  was  just  one  link  that  kept  those  periods  in  evi- 
dence— her  language;  it  never  acquired  the  altitude  of 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          313 

culture  and  refinement  of  the  Western  family  from 
which  she  sprang,  and  her  new  friends  wondered  when 
their  ears  were  keen,  but  not  all  were  keen,  and  some 
had  climbed  the  social  ladder,  and  were  also  building  up 
an  ancestry. 

Tressy  lacked  the  managing  ability  of  her  sister. 
When  Josie  grew  turbulent  under  the  restrictions  of 
school  life  and  no  wages,  she  carried  her  point,  getting 
a  place  to  work  with  her  chum;  she  refused  to  go  to 
work  with  Tressy.  She  earned  good  wages  from  the 
beginning  in  a  shop  employing  only  six  girls ;  the  book- 
keeper, who  was  manager,  became  at  once  Josie's  friend. 
Before  she  had  been  at  work  a  month  he  was  a  constant 
caller  at  her  home. 

Mamie  had  taught  her  mother  one  lesson,  she  now 
came  into  the  parlor  when  her  children  had  company. 
Tressy  and  Josie,  whatever  their  feelings,  never  dared  to 
object  even  in  manner.  One  child  had  cast  her  aside, 
she  had  permitted  it,  now  she  would  stand  at  the  head  of 
her  family,  and  all  who  met  her  children  must  acknowl- 
edge her  as  their  equal.  The  bookkeeper  quite  won 
Mary's  heart ;  his  manner  reinstated  her  in  her  own  con- 
fidence and  life  was  on  the  surface  smooth  and  congenial. 
Mamie's  name  was  not  mentioned.  Josie  won  more  than 
her  share  of  clothes,  but  it  was  quite  as  much  due  to  the 
winning  bookkeeper  as  Josie.  "She  must  look  as  well  as 
he  does,"  was  Mary's  justification  for  extravagance. 
Now  and  then  Josie  made  excursions  into  the  bookkeep- 
er's world,  and  saw  a  future  different  from  her  com- 
panions, different  from  all  she  knew,  different  from  her 
sister  Tressy's,  whose  loyalty  to  Jim  Brady  remained 


314  THE  STORY  OF 

unshaken  though  it  received  scant  recognition  from  him. 
Mary  resented  this  and  her  resentment  gradually  drove 
Tressy  to  Bridget  and  her  grandfather's  home. 

"He'll  never  marry  her/'  was  Mary's  constant  com- 
plaint to  Jack,  who  listened  but  never  expressed  an 
opinion  beyond,  "We  married  as  suited  us,  and  that's 
right.  Let  the  child  alone." 

Bridget  grew  sweeter,  more  sympathetic  and  self- 
reliant  in  her  own  home  with  her  husband  to  coddle  and 
pet,  and  who  grew  more  genial  and  responsive  under  her 
influence.  His  grandchildren  always  found  in  him  a 
listener,  never  intrusive,  but  clear  sighted  when  they 
asked  for  advice. 

It  was  in  her  grandfather's  home  that  Jim  Brady  was 
most  natural.  The  parlor  furniture,  the  piano,  the 
Brussels  carpet  in  Tressy's  own  home  made  him  cautious, 
and  he  was  less  himself  there  than  anywhere,  while 
Mary  was  a  serious  objection  to  the  timid  and  somewhat 
cautious  young  man. 

"Tressy's  a  fine  girl."  Bridget  was  sitting  at  her  door- 
step with  Jim  Brady  beside  her  one  Sunday  afternoon; 
Tressy  was  coming  down  the  street  to  make  her  usual 
Sunday  call.  "There's  no  airs  about  her,  she's  ready 
and  willing  to  turn  her  hand  to  anything;  she's  made 
every  stitch  she  has  on.  It's  many  a  stitch  she  takes 
for  me,"  was  said  as  they  watched  Tressy  walking  toward 
them. 

There  was  a  cordial  greeting  and  then  Bridget,  mak- 
ing an  excuse,  left  the  two  to  themselves. 

Tressy  spoke  to  her  brother  John  as  he  came  out  of 
the  parlor  on  the  first  floor ;  his  face  was  stern  and  white ; 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY         315 

he  passed  between  Tressy  and  Jim  without  responding. 
In  the  parlor,  which  was  to  the  neighbors  so  bare,  having 
only  "straw  furniture"  and  "straw"  on  the  floor,  Mrs. 
Donnelly  declared,  "with  cushions  on  the  sofy  till  it 
looked  as  if  they  had  robbed  the  beds"  (this  was  her 
description  of  matting  and  rattan  furniture),  as  she 
looked  proudly  at  her  own  ribbon-bedecked  parlor  suite 
of  brilliant  colorings,  and  gay  carpet.  Kittie's  taste 
prevailed  in  her  home.  The  little  parlor  shut  out  the 
world  that  surrounded  it ;  the  windows  facing  the  south 
were  rilled  with  plants,  and  a  canary  hung  above  them, 
reading  and  the  homes  of  her  school  friends  had  educated 
Kittie,  who  lived  now  within  the  four  walls  of  her  home 
when  not  at  the  shop. 

When  John  went  out  that  Sunday  he  left  Kittie  crying 
in  the  big  chair,  and  there  Bridget  found  her. 

"Now,  dear,  if  you  don't  want  to  marry  him  you  don't 
and  that's  all  about  it.  Shure,  crying  won't  change  it. 
He's  a  good  boy  and  would  have  made  you  a  good  hus- 
band ;  he's  fond  of  Laddie  and  would  have  been  good  to 
him;  but  if  you  don't  want  to  marry  him  yer  don't." 
Kittie  still  cried  softly;  she  was  so  tiny  and  so  frail,  so 
like  a  baby  that  Bridget  rebelled  against  the  fate  that 
seemed  to  cut  her  off  from  the  life  of  sheltering  love 
that  should  have  been  hers.  How  could  Kittie  meet  the 
future?  Nora  and  she  were  all  alone.  Laddie  was 
Bridget's  care  and  delight  and  was  a  source  of  endless 
friction  between  Mary  and  Bridget. 

"Nora  would  marry  John  Donnelly  [his  wife  had  been 
dead  a  year]  if  Kittie  would  marry,  but  she'll  never  leave 
Kittie  alone.  It's  hard  on  all  of  them.  Our  Johnny 


316  THE   STORY  OF 

loves  Kittle  and  would  be  good  to  her."  Bridget  would 
sigh  as  she  carried  the  matrimonial  affairs  of  their 
friends  to  her  husband.  Now  Kittie  had  refused  to 
marry  "our  Johnny."  Bridget  expected  she  would,  yet 
she  had  built  the  castles  now  fallen  to  the  ground. 

"There,  now,  Kittie;  stop  crying;  yer  won't  feel  any 
different  if  yer  cry  a  week.  Laddie'll  be  worrying  when 
Bridget  brings  him  in,  to  see  yer  like  this.  Don't,  dear, 
it  breaks  me  heart  to  have  yer  cry.'* 

There  was  a  commotion  in  the  hall.  Nora  came  in 
white  but  calm. 

Kittie  sprang  up.     "Where's  Laddie?" 

Nora  took  her  hands  and  said  quietly,  "They're  bring- 
in'  him  in;  he's  hurt,  Kittie.  He  was  running  ahead 
of  me  in  the  Park  and  darted  out  in  the  road  after  a 
bird;  two  men  were  in  a  wagon  going  fast  and  Laddie 
ran  in  front  of  the  horse." 

Kittie  did  not  speak,  she  was  watching  the  door.  It 
was  pushed  open  slowly,  Bob  came  in  carrying  Laddie. 
Kittie  swayed,  but  recovered  quickly.  She  walked 
toward  him,  giving  no  sign  of  recognition,  "Give  me 
my  baby."  She  took  the  great  boy  into  her  arms  and 
walked  into  the  back  room. 

Nora  and  Bridget  stood  helpless.  Nora's  first  thought 
had  been,  when  Bob  picked  up  the  boy  from  under  the 
horse's  feet,  "It  may  bring  him  to  Kittie."  Now  they 
had  met,  Kittie  would  not  speak  to  him. 

Nora  moved  to  follow  Kittie,  but  Bob  passed  her. 
Kittie  sat  holding  the  boy,  his  arm  bandaged  and  hang- 
ing in  a  sling,  she  was  talking  softly  to  him.  Bob  stood 
looking  at  them  both. 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          317 

"Kittle/'  the  boy  started  and  looked  from  one  to  the 
other.  "Kittle,  will  you  speak  to  me?" 

Nora  took  Laddie  in  her  arms  and  left  Bob  and  Kittle 
alone.  When  the  door  was  closed  Bob  took  a  step 
nearer  Kittle,  but  the  expression  in  her  eyes  as  she 
looked  at  him,  holding  fast  to  the  arms  of  the  chair 
in  which  she  was  sitting,  did  not  respond  to  the  tone  of 
his  voice. 

"Kittie,  will  you  forgive  me?  I  wronged  you,  Kit- 
tie  ;  I  knew  it  at  the  time,  but  I  was  mad  with  jealousy. 
All  these  years  I  have  believed  I  wronged  you.  Last 
week  Jim  Hollis  died;  he  sent  for  me  two  days  before 
he  died  and  told  me  how  he  had  lied.  He  asked  me  to 
come  to  you  and  tell  you  that  he  had  told  me  the  truth, 
and  to  ask  you  to  forgive  him.  Kittie,  will  you  forgive 
me?  I  wronged  you  more  than  I  can  repay  in  a  life- 
time. Kittie,  will  you  marry  me  now?" 

"No;  I  could  not." 

There  was  no  mistaking  Kittie's  tone.  Her  eyes  did 
not  waver  as  she  looked  at  Bob.  Whatever  place  Bob 
had  held  in  Kittie's  heart  in  the  past,  he  held  no 
longer. 

"I  want  Laddie ;  will  you  please  go  ?" 

Bob  walked  out,  looked  longingly  into  the  face  of  the 
boy  in  Nora's  arms,  then  left  the  house. 

Bridget  put  out  her  hand  as  he  was  leaving  the  room 
where  Nora  sat  with  Laddie,  and  stopped  him,  "Shure, 
don't  be  discouraged,  she  has  a  tender  heart,  and  it  will 
be  won  again  if  you're  wise.  Ye  wronged  her  cruelly, 
don't  forget  that,  and  yer  must  expect  to  suffer  for  what 
you've  done.  Ye  left  her  to  bear  this  all  alone." 


318  THE  STORY  OF 

Bob  bowed  and  closed  the  door. 

"Shure,  Kittie's  not  the  only  one  who  has  suffered; 
he  lost  Kittle  and  he  knew  he'd  wronged  her,  and  that's 
worse  than  bearing  her  sin,  and  he's  never  had  his  boy. 
Dear  little  Kittie,  shure  ye'll  see  yet  he  loves  yer." 
Bridget  wiped  her  eyes  and  went  to  her  darling.  But 
a  white-faced  stern  woman,  holding  her  little  son  made 
any  questioning  of  her  action  impossible.  Bridget  and 
Nora  hoped,  but  were  silent. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

AMBITIONS. 

As  the  months  passed  and  Mamie  still  ignored  her 
home  and  family,  her  mother  grew  vindictive ;  she  would 
show  Mamie  yet  that  there  were  those  who  were  glad  to 
marry  in  the  family  and  acknowledge  and  keep  her 
friendship.  Mary  closely  questioned  Josie  about  the 
friends  of  the  bookkeeper  she  met.  How  were  they 
dressed?  What  was  in  their  houses? 

Josie  was  clever,  observant,  and  in  love.  She  soon 
learned  to  wear  tailor-made  suits  and  simple  waists,  her 
hats  were  models;  she  bought  cheap  copies  of  popular 
books  and  read  them;  grew  critical  of  the  parlor, 
eliminated  some  of  the  family  portraits  and  the  ribbon- 
tied  ornaments;  she  dropped  the  acquaintance  of  the 
young  men  in  the  neighborhood  entirely,  and  never  went 
out  with  the  girls,  though  she  kept  up  a  neighborhood 
friendship. 

Mary  responded  to  Josie's  demands  for  clothes,  sub- 
mitted to  the  eliminations  in  the  parlor  with  hidden 
rebellion,  and  bought  decorated  china.  Inwardly  she 
was  in  a  constant  state  of  rebellion;  no  woman  ever 
found  submission  harder,  especially  submission  that 
acknowledged  that  any  one  about  her  knew  more,  or 
knew  better  how  to  do  anything;  she  always  had  had 
subjects;  she  always  would,  for  she  was  most  efficient; 


320  THE  STORY  OF 

but  she  knew  that  her  children  were  passing  her  rapidly 
on  the  road  of  knowledge,  and  they  often,  especially 
Tom  and  Josie,  made  no  effort  to  conceal  their  con- 
tempt for  her  ignorance.  The  family  life  was  divided ; 
sympathies  became  less  and  less  common.  Mamie's 
repudiation  was  a  bitter  trial  to  the  mother,  as  it  had 
been  a  revelation,  and  Mary  had  grown  sharper,  espe- 
cially with  Jack,  who,  according  to  the  new  standards 
of  the  family,  was  not  a  success. 

The  world  in  which  the  bookkeeper  introduced  Josie 
became  the  authority  and  the  lever  for  any  demand  she 
made  on  the  family  purse  still  controlled  by  Mary.  The 
savings  of  years  at  last  were  levied  upon,  for  Mamie 
must  be  punished,  she  must  be  made  to  acknowledge 
her  family.  Josie  was  the  one  who  could  accomplish 
Mary's  ends.  She  was  very  pretty,  very  clever,  and 
when  she  chose,  very  lovable. 

But  the  day  came  when  Josie  sat  waiting  for  the 
bookkeeper  and  he  did  not  come.  Josie  had  referred  at 
times  to  a  new  girl  who  had  been  taken  in  the  shop. 
Mary's  frowns  deepened.  She  read  the  story  that  Josie 
did  not  tell.  One  Saturday  Josie  came  home  from 
work;  she  had  been  discharged.  Work  was  dull  and 
some  must  be  laid  off.  Josie  was  one,  the  new  girl  was 
kept.  Josie  announced  this  curtly. 

To  Mary  this  was  as  though  the  heavens  had  fallen. 
Her  daughters  had  been  so  successful.  Never  before 
had  one  been  discharged.  Josie  made  no  effort  to  find 
work;  her  face  was  white  and  the  shadows  under  her 
eyes  told  the  story  of  sleepless,  tearful  nights.  Josie 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          321 

had  lost  all  interest  in  life,  nor  could  her  mother 
rouse  it. 

Next  door  there  lived  a  widow  and  her  three  daugh- 
ters. The  father  died  when  the  three  daughters  were 
twelve,  fourteen,  and  sixteen  years  of  age.  The  neighbors 
all  bemoaned  the  fact  that  at  least  one  of  the  daughters 
had  not  been  a  son.  When  one  had  the  temerity  to 
suggest  this  to  the  widow,  she  rose  in  wrath.  Any  one 
of  her  girls  was  worth  two  boys.  She'd  seen  enough 
of  mothers  left  with  boys.  Girls  were  good  enough  for 
her;  and,  anyway,  she  hoped  she  was  Christian  enough 
to  bow  to  the  will  of  God.  The  father  had  been  a  day- 
laborer,  honest,  industrious,  and  sober.  Bride  and 
groom,  they  had  come  seventeen  years  before  into  those 
rooms,  furnished  by  the  savings  of  the  bride — she  had 
been  a  cook  for  several  years — and  the  same  rooms  wit- 
nessed the  funeral  of  the  husband  and  father,  a  middle- 
aged  man,  quiet,  with  no  cronies  and  few  friends.  The 
wife  and  mother  was  stunned  by  the  blow.  She  had 
managed  to  live  on  her  husband's  earnings,  but  there 
were  no  savings.  She  must  begin  to  work  herself.  The 
oldest  daughter  resented  this.  She  would  not  have  her 
mother  work.  She  was  a  favorite  in  the  shop  where  she 
had  been  employed  for  two  years.  She  asked  for  a  place 
for  her  sister,  and  got  it.  In  a  month's  time  there  was 
an  increase  in  her  own  wages,  and  the  first  ray  of  light 
came  into  the  darkened  home.  The  wages  of  the  two 
girls  would  keep  the  home.  The  black  dresses  would 
last  some  time. 

At  the  end  of  two  years  the  elder  daughter  was  made 
forewoman  at  ten  dollars  a  week,  and  her  first  thought 


322  THE  STORY  OF 

was  to  keep  her  younger  sister  in  school  another  year. 
The  mother's  head  was  held  high  as  she  told  of  her 
daughter's  advance,  and  increase  of  wages.  There  was 
a  fine  scorn  in  her  voice  as  she  asked  her  neighbors  to 
show  her  a  son  in  the  neighborhood  earning  ten  dollars 
a  week  steady,  at  twenty.  The  forewoman  felt  her 
superiority,  and  the  young  men,  who  were  free  and  care- 
less with  the  other  girls,  soon  learned  that  they  were 
not  objects  of  interest  to  this,  to  them,  "new  woman." 
This  atmosphere  of  superiority  seemed  to  envelop  the 
whole  family,  and  they  were  thought  proud.  The  "little 
one,"  as  she  was  called,  was  kept  at  the  Sisters'  school, 
and  proved  a  bright,  attractive  pupil.  Stern  were  the 
older  sisters  if  she  did  not  give  her  evenings  to  "her 
books."  The  mother,  to  whom  she  was  always  the  baby, 
gave  her  liberties  the  o]der  ones  never  had,  and  this  was 
the  bone  of  contention.  The  "little  one"  grew  restless. 
One  by  one  the  girls  she  knew  had  gone  to  work,  and 
were  independent.  "Katie  had  no  education,  and  still 
she  was  earning  ten  dollars  a  week,"  was  the  "little 
one's"  argument  against  education.  The  "little  one" 
at  last  did  not  appear  one  afternoon  after  school.  At 
half -past  six  she  appeared  and  announced  that  she  had  a 
place  at  three  dollars  a  week.  The  defiant  toss  of  her 
head,  the  light  of  rebellion  in  her  eyes,  told  Katie  that 
her  ideal  for  this  young  sister  would  never  be  realized. 
The  "little  one"  was  the  victim  or  the  product  of  her 
environment.  She  had  got  her  "place"  through  a  neigh- 
bor's daughter,  and  it  was  about  as  good  as  a  girl  of  her 
age  could  expect  to  get.  When  the  busy  season  began, 
Katie  would  get  a  place  for  the  "little  one"  with  her, 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          323 

and  the  three  could  go  to  and  from  work  together.  The 
"little  one"  refused  to  leave  her  place  when  the  busy  sea- 
son with  Katie  began.  "Katie  bossed  her  too  much,"  was 
the  reason  she  gave  her  mother,  and  the  tears  in  the 
"little  one's"  eyes  brought  the  mother  to  her  side.  Two 
years  went  by.  The  "little  one"  had  engagements  for  al- 
most every  evening.  She  was  clever  with  her  fingers, 
and  the  hats  and  waists  she  made  were  marvels  to  her 
mates.  Her  laugh  was  the  gayest,  and  the  home  was  a 
meeting-place  for  the  "little  one's"  friends;  they  were 
always  welcome.  But  suddenly  a  frightened  look  crept 
into  the  "little  one's"  eyes.  She  never  laughed,  and  when 
Bhe  smiled  it  went  to  her  mother's  heart  like  a  knife; 
there  was  such  sadness  in  the  smile.  The  mother  and  the 
two  older  daughter  were  not  well  known,  and  were  con- 
sidered proud. 

"The  little  one"  was  a  favorite  in  the  neighborhood; 
Tom  and  she  had  gone  to  school  together ;  their  intimacy 
had  been  unbroken  until  chance  had  brought  Gretchen 
and  Mary  together  on  the  Glen  Island  boat  one  Sunday. 
Tom  was  with  Mary,  while  Jacob  and  Gretchen  had  their 
youngest  daughter,  Kathleen,  with  them.  The  two 
young  people  found  each  other's  society  very  attractive. 
Tom  was  as  attractive  to  the  father  and  mother  as  to 
Kathleen,  and  urgent  invitations  to  come  and  see  each 
other  marked  the  parting  of  the  old  friends.  Tom 
availed  himself  at  once  of  the  invitation.  Josie  refused 
all  urging  to  make  friends  with  the  mother's  old  friends, 
but  settled  at  home.  Neither  her  mother's  contempt  nor 
encouragement  moved  her. 

Tom  had  always  loved  Josie;  he  was  troubled  and  dis- 


324  THE  STORY  OF 

tressed  by  this  new  phase,  and  while  walking  with  "the 
little  one"  as  all  the  neighbors  called  her,  one  evening, 
he  confided  his  anxiety  about  Josie.  The  next  evening 
Katie,  the  older  sister  of  "the  little  one,"  called  and 
asked  Josie  if  she  could  help  them  out  at  the  shop. 
Josie  went  to  work  again,  largely  because  she  had  not 
the  power  to  say  no,  for  work  she  did  not  care. 

How  much  of  the  gossip  had  come  to  Katie's  ears  no 
one  knew,  but  Josie  found  her  a  helpful  friend.  With 
the  new  work  and  new  surroundings  Josie  regained  her 
cheerfulness  somewhat,  but  she  was  not  reinstated  in  the 
social  set  of  the  neighborhood  which  she  had  cast  aside 
for  the  bookkeeper,  nor  did  she  reach  out  for  reinstate- 
ment; she  had  made  her  little  journey  in  another 
world  and  that  about  her  no  longer  attracted  her;  she 
read  evenings  and  lived  more  and  more  at  home,  bearing 
her  mother's  comments,  sometimes  silently,  but  more 
often  responding  in  kind.  Her  home  at  last  became 
unbearable,  and  she  left  it  when  her  mother  grew 
abusive. 

Tom  now  was  gone  every  night  up  town.  Mary  was 
radiant.  "If  he  should  marry  Kathleen,  shure  he'd 
have  money,"  she  said  one  night  to  Jack. 

"Marry  Kathleen!  Why,  he's  going  to  marry  'the 
little  one ;'  he'd  be  a  cur  if  he  didn't/'  was  Jack's  angry 
response. 

"Now,  that's  like  yer.  What'll  she  have?  I  don't 
believe  they  have  a  cent  to  their  names.  She  spends 
every  cent  on  her  back." 

"Well,  who  don't?    Don't  Tressy?  and  Josie's  spent 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          325 

more  than  she's  earned  this  many  a  day;  yer'll  never  get 
in  bank  what  yer  took  out  for  her." 

"Well,  God  knows,  if  the  children  were  like  you,  they'd 
never  get  out  of  these  streets."  Mary's  eyes  flashed  and 
her  voice  expressed  contempt.  "Tom  is  a  smart  fellow. 
Here  he  is  but  twenty-one  with  four  men  under  him. 
Julia  told  me  Charlie  said  that  Tom  would  have  as  big 
a  building  to  care  for  as  his  before  long;  and  look  at 
him,  keeping  a  girl  for  his  wife,  and  me  washing  and 
scrubbing  the  same  as  the  day  I  married  yer." 

Mary  had  said  more  than  she  intended.  Jack  looked 
at  her.  He  turned  to  leave  the  room,  but  stopped  short. 

"If  Tom  don't  marry  'the  little  one,'  I  never  want 
to  see  his  face  again.  I  was  goin'  to  speak  to  him  last 
night  but  he  went  out  widout  his  supper.  He  didn't 
come  home  or  I  could  have  seen  him."  Jack  stopped. 
"If  he  leaves  'the  little  one'  and  marries  Kathleen,  I 
never  want  to  see  his  face."  The  door  closed.  Mary 
did  not  move.  Tom  often  stayed  uptown  these  days. 
Gretchen  had  a  big  house.  A  glow  of  pride  and  satisfac- 
tion drove  all  thought  of  what  Jack  had  said  from  her 
mind.  "Tom'll  do  well,"  was  her  comment. 

The  evening  before  this  conversation,  in  the  home  of 
the  widow,  a  young  girl  sat  looking  out  of  the  window, 
too  high  for  her  to  see  the  street,  but  she  was  listening 
to  the  footfalls ;  as  it  grew  darker  she  leaned  out  watch- 
ing the  people  who  passed  along  the  street.  The  mother 
saw  the  color  deepen  in  her  cheeks  and  leave  them  as  the 
young  girl  drew  back  and  sat  down  with  her  hands  in 
her  lap.  The  mother  walked  aimlessly  about  the  room. 
What  could  she  do  or  say?  "God  forgive  him,  he's 


326  THE  STORY   OF 

breaking  her  heart;  shure,  he  can't  mane  to  lave  the 
darlint;  he's  the  only  one  she  cared  for  really.  I  won- 
der where  he  do  be  goin'  ?  Is  Tom  comin'  to-night, 
child?"  she  asked  aloud. 

There  was  no  answer.  The  old  mother  crossed  the 
room,  and,  putting  her  arms  about  "the  little  one,"  she 
said,  evidently  with  an  effort,  "Shure,  yer  father  did 
that  to  me  onct  and  it  nearly  broke  me  heart,  but  he 
came  back,  and  no  one  could  have  been  truer.  Don't 
worry,  darlint.  He'll  come  whistling  up  the  stairs  these 
many  nights.  Don't  you  be  cryin'." 

Wearily  "the  little  one"  half  pushed  her  mother 
aside.  "I've  a  headache ;  I'm  goin'  to  bed.  Tell  Katie." 
Leaving  her  mother  she  went  into  the  bedroom  and  shut 
the  door.  When  Katie  came  home  her  mother  told  her, 
"  The  little  one's'  in  bed  with  a  headache." 

"Was  Tom  here?" 

"No." 

Neither  of  the  women  made  further  comment,  but 
Katie  stole  softly  to  bed ;  though  she  knew  her  sister  was 
awake,  she  did  not  speak.  She  longed  to  comfort  her, 
to  tell  her  Tom  would  come  back.  But  "the  little  one" 
had  never  talked  about  Tom,  and  Katie  could  not  break 
that  silence. 

"He  couldn't  leave  her,  she's  so  sweet,"  said  Katie 
when  she  looked  at  the  girlish,  almost  childish,  face  on 
the  pillow  in  the  early  morning  light. 

It  was  in  late  November.  The  older  girls  were  at 
home.  The  table  was  ready,  but  the  "little  one,"  who 
was  always  home  first,  did  not  come.  Katie  put  on  her 
hat  and  went  to  the  neighbor's  whose  daughter  was  the 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          327 

"little  one's"  chum.  She  was  too  clever  to  ask  about 
the  "little  one/'  There  had  been  in  her  heart  a  dread 
for  weeks.  She  made  her  call,  and  was  met  by  the  ques- 
tion, "What's  the  matter  with  the  'little  one?'  Why  is 
she  not  at  work  ?"  Katie  never  knew  how  she  got  out ; 
she  only  knew  she  had  not  betrayed  the  "little  one."  She 
locked  the  door  when  she  got  home.  That  night  three 
ashen-faced  women  sat  beside  the  stove.  The  light  was 
put  out  at  the  usual  time.  They  were  very  shrewd.  Sun- 
day, the  next  day,  they  went  to  early  mass,  meeting  ques- 
tions about  the  "little  one"  by  answering  that  she  was 
better.  Monday  morning  glaring  headlines  faced  Katie 
as  she  purchased  her  usual  penny  paper  at  the  ferry.  A 
young  girl,  who  refused  to  give  her  name,  had  died  at  one 
of  the  hospitals  the  day  before.  No  means  of  identification. 
Her  hair  had  recently  been  cut  off  close.  The  body  was 
at  the  Morgue.  Yes,  Katie  worked  all  day.  Her  sister 
had  been  left  at  home  to  protect  her  mother  from 
visitors.  To  the  neighbors,  the  "little  one"  was  ill  with 
a  cold. 

That  night  two  young  women,  closely  veiled,  went  to 
the  Morgue  to  see  the  body  of  the  unknown  girl.  They 
knew  her,  for  one  of  them  cried  out  when  she  saw  the 
body.  The  two  stood  a  short  time,  and  then  left. 
One  of  them  came  back  to  say  they  knew  the  girl, 
and  wanted  "to  bury  her  decent."  An  undertaker  would 
come  in  the  morning  and  take  charge  of  the  body.  They 
would  not  come.  Into  the  night  went  the  two  sisters. 
It  was  after  midnight  when  they  opened  the  door  of 
their  home.  A  broken-down  old  woman,  with  gray  hair 
hanging  down  her  face,  met  them.  Her  hands  were 


328  THE   STOEY   OF 

raised  in  protest  against  the  story  she  saw  in  their  faces. 
They  knelt  beside  her,  and  in  whispers  broken  by  sobs 
the  story  was  told.  The  "little  one"  was  dead,  and 
who  destroyed  her  would  never  be  known.  Sha  had 
tried  to  hide  it,  and  died.  She  came  alone  to  the  hospi- 
tal, sick,  in  the  early  morning,  and  had  been  taken  in. 
Yes,  her  hair  was  gone.  Probably  she  sold  it  to  help  her- 
self in  her  trouble.  How  secretive  and  shrewd  did  this 
group  of  innocent  women  become !  Their  lives  had  been 
as  open  as  the  day,  but  they  could  lie  without  changing 
color  to  protect  the  family  name.  The  question  as  to 
how  they  should  explain  the  "little  one's"  continued 
absence  did  not  occur  to  them.  They  thought  only  of 
to-day.  The  mother,  in  her  simple  black  bonnet  and 
shawl  wrapped  about  her  shoulders,  sat  holding  fast  to 
the  arms  of  the  rocker  in  the  early  gray  dawn.  Her  eyes 
were  fixed  on  the  gray  sky.  She  was  glad  the  sun  would 
not  shine  that  cruel  day.  Katie,  with  her  gay  Sunday 
hat,  and  the  sister,  dressed  as  if  for  an  outing,  knocked 
at  the  neighbor's  door  and  announced  that  the  "little 
one"  was  sleeping.  They  were  going  out  to  get  mother 
a  cloak;  would  the  neighbor  listen  if  the  "little  one" 
called  ? — and  then  they  locked  the  door  lest  the  neighbor 
should  be  moved  to  enter  without  being  called.  The 
three  women  took  the  car  that  went  to  the  shopping  dis- 
trict; they  changed,  and  took  the  car  to  the  suburbs. 
At  the  gate  of  the  cemetery  stood  an  empty  carriage. 
Stumbling  and  moaning,  the  old  mother  was  helped  in. 
She  realized  at  last  what  had  come  to  the  "little  one." 
They  sat  an  hour  with  the  curtains  drawn.  In  the  warm 
office  stood  a  young  man,  very  wide  awake  and  energetic. 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          329 

He  was  well-booted  and  gloved,  and  bore  the  evidences 
of  refinement. 

At  last  there  appeared  a  hearse  without  any  carriages. 
Katie  saw  it,  got  out,  and  motioned  to  the  man  on  the 
box.  There  was  a  heart-rending  groan  as  the  door  of  the 
carriage  was  closed  and  it  followed  after  the  hearse. 
Slowly  the  little  procession  wended  its  way  to  the  place 
where  the  cheapest  graves  are.  Not  far  behind  it  walked 
the  alert  young  man,  with,  an  expression  of  triumph  in 
his  face.  The  hearse  stopped  near  an  open  grave.  Two 
girls  helped  out  a  broken-hearted  mother,  and  they  stood 
while  the  grave  was  filled.  The  young  man  stood  not 
far  away  on  a  knoll.  He  had  a  very  good  position  for 
his  purpose.  He  could  see  every  movement  and  hear 
every  sob.  The  three  entered  the  carriage,  left  it  at  the 
entrance,  and  returned  by  the  street  cars  to  their  home. 
The  alert  young  man  sat  in  the  same  car,  changed  when 
the  mother  and  sisters  changed.  When  they  entered 
their  home  he  followed,  lest  he  should  make  a  mistake 
in  the  number  of  flights  of  stairs  they  lived  above  the 
street.  As  he  left  the  house  he  carefully  noted  the 
number.  The  woman  who  kept  the  grocery  store  next 
door,  in  great  innocence,  gave  him  the  name  of  the 
family  on  the  fourth  floor,  and  wondered  who  the  fine 
young  man  was  who  asked  so  many  questions.  "Shure, 
was  Katie  to  be  given  a  bigger  job?  She  deserved  it. 
She's  a  fine  girl." 

The  evening  edition  came  out  in  triumph : 
THE   UNKNOWN   GIEL 
Fully  Identified. 

Followed  to  the  Grave  by  her  Mother  and  Sisters. 


330  THE  STORY   OF 

Great  is  the  triumph  of  modern  journalism!  The 
neighbors  come,  white  of  face  and  gentle  of  manner. 
"God  comfort  you!"  The  blow  had  fallen  on  the 
family.  They  had  not  saved  the  "little  one's"  name. 


CHAPTEK  XVI. 

THE    DAT    OF    BECKONING. 

TOM  and  his  father  had  met.  It  was  Monday  night. 
The  interview  was  short. 

"Then  you're  goin'  to  marry  Kathleen  ?" 

Tom  faced  his  father  defiantly.  "If  I  am  that's  my 
business.  You  married  who  you  wanted  to,  and  so  will 
I."  He  turned  to  the  door. 

Jack  put  his  hand  on-  Tom's  shoulder.  "Are  you 
goin'  to  throw  little  Maggie  over  ?" 

Tom  tried  to  shake  himself  free;  the  hand  on  his 
shoulder  gripped  harder.  Tom  faced  his  father  again, 
and  slowly,  without  trace  of  anger,  replied:  "Father, 
I  am  going  to  marry  Kathleen.  I  liked  Maggie,  you 
know  that,  but  I  cannot  live  without  Kathleen.  Think 
how  you  would  have  felt  if  any  one  had  tried  to  come 
between  you  and  mother.  I  can't  help  it,  father,  I  must 
have  Kathleen !"  Jack's  hand  fell  to  his  side.  Tom  left 
him.  That  was  Monday  night. 

Tuesday  night  Jack  and  Tom  again  faced  each  other. 
The  paper  with  "the  little  one's"  dead  face  in  it  was  in 
Jack's  hand.  He  did  not  know  it  was  there.  His  head 
rested  on  his  hand,  and  he  shook  as  one  with  the  ague. 
The  misery  and  suffering  of  the  boy  silenced  the  father's 
wrath.  To  Jack  no  crime  of  which  a  man  could  be 
guilty  equalled  this  of  which  Tom  stood  self-accused. 
He  had  come  in  late  to  find  his  father  alone.  The  paper 
he  held  in  his  hand  was  open  on  the  table.  There  Tom 


332  THE  STORY  OF 

saw  it  for  the  first  time.  Though,  but  a  caricature  of 
"the  little  one's"  face,  one  more  insult  to  her  memory, 
the  name  filled  a  space  above  it  in  letters  that  could  be 
read  the  length  of  the  room. 

Tom  stopped.  As  his  mind  slowly  grasped  the  hor- 
rible fact  his  strength  left  him;  he  would  have  fallen 
if  his  father  had  not  caught  him  and  put  him  in  a  chair. 
He  looked  at  his  father  helplessly  trying  to  speak;  he 
could  not  form  the  words. 

Pity  struggled  with  rage  and  contempt  in  his  father's 
heart.  ISTo  confession  was  necessary ;  Tom  had  made  it. 
When  his  father  moved  Tom.  looked  over  his  shoulder 
apprehensively. 

Jack's  lip  curled,  f<You're  safe,"  he  said  with  scorn; 
"she  died  without  tellin'." 

The  scorn  in  his  father's  words  and  manner  roused 
Tom.  "I  didn't  know,  father.  As  God  is  my  judge, 
I  didn't  know;  she  never  said  a  word." 

"Damn  yer !  Yer  left  her.  In  that  other  room  yer  told 
me  yer  liked  her.  Why  don't  I  kick  you  out  of  my  sight, 
yer  scoundrel!"  Tom  cringed.  "The  little  lady!  I 
saw  her  like  a  doll  the  first  day  she  walked  on  the  street 
holdin'  her  father's  finger.  They  watched  her  and  petted 
her  like  a  baby,  and  she  never  knew  a  care.  Good 
.  God!  Tom,  how  can  you  live  knowin'  you  led  her  to 
her  death  ?  'Twas  you  that  killed  her."  Jack  was  crying. 
He  walked  the  floor  back  and  forth.  Stopping  before 
Tom,  he  said,  in  a  voice  that  told  of  suffering  and  was 
weighted  with  truth:  "It  would  be  easier  for  me  to 
stand  beside  your  grave,  than  see  you  livin'  all  the  years 
I  must,  and  know  that  baby  trusted  you,  and  went  to  her 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY         333 

grave  in  shame,  alone  and  suffering,  because  of  you, 
my  son.  Think  of  it,  Tom;  the  little  thing  going  sick 
and  alone,  and  lying  at  the  door  of  a  hospital  to  be  taken 
in  to  die."  Jack's  voice  broke  as  he  added  hoarsely, 
"And  to  die  and  not  tell  who  ruined  her.  I  would 
rather  be  the  father  of  that  girl  dead,  than  you  living 
you  cur."  Jack  bowed  his  head  on  his  arms.  Tom 
looked  at  him.  If  only  he  could  speak ;  but  he  couldn't. 

The  clock  ticked  until  it  seemed  to  drown  every 
sound  in  the  universe.  Neither  man  moved. 

The  door  opened.  Mary  gave  a  quick  glance  from  her 
husband  to  her  son,  saw  the  paper  in  Tom's  hand,  grasp- 
ing the  horrible  truth  at  once. 

"Tom!"  her  hands  were  stretched  toward  him.  He 
did  not  move.  She  crept  to  him,  putting  her  arms 
about  his  neck.  Brokenly,  in  a  voice  of  hopeless  despair, 
Tom  said:  "I  didn't  know,  mother;  she  never  said  a 
word." 

In  a  rage  Jack  sprang  to  his  feet.  "  You  scoundrel, 
that's  no  excuse.  You  never  intended  to  marry  her; 
you  made  her  see  that.  Yer  left  her  and  she  took  her 
life  to  leave  yer  free.  My  God,  how  can  you  live!" 
Jack  sank  down  again. 

"No  one  will  ever  know,  Tom.  They  think  it  was  the 
boss.  Yer  name  ain't  never  been  mentioned." 

Jack  sat  up.  The  awful  truth  came  to  him;  the 
mother  of  his  child  cared  only  that  Tom  should  not  be 
blamed.  She  would  let  him  marry  a  girl  as  sweet  and 
pure  as  the  one  now  dead  because  of  Tom's  baseness,  in 
ignorance  of  the  truth. 

"Mary,  that  boy  will  never    marry  Kathleen  till 


334  THE   STORY  OF 

Jacob  knows  the  truth.  There  is  no  use.  I'll  tell  him 
myself." 

"Father!"  Tom's  voice  commanded  his  attention. 
"Be  as  merciful  to  me  as  you've  been  to  Kittie."  Jack 
started.  "When  you  tell  Kathleen's  father,  tell  him  the 
truth.  I  would  have  married  Maggie,  even  if  I  didn't 
love  her,  if  I'd  known.  Yes,  I'd  have  done  it,  but  I  would 
have  loved  Kathleen.  When  you  tell  Jacob,  tell  him 
the  truth." 

Mary  and  Jack  looked  at  each  other.  It  was  their 
boy  who  had  spoken ;  it  was  his  little  playmate  who  had 
crawled  away  to  die,  smitten,  alone,  silent.  If  she 
would  shield  him  by  her  death  they  must  by  their  lives. 

"Tom,"  it  was  Jack  who  spoke;  "I  pity  you;  you 
can  never  forget  this.  Jacob  and  Gretchen  will  know 
the  truth."  Jack  took  his  hat,  leaving  Mary  and  Tom 
alone. 

"Oh  mother!"  Tom  was  sobbing  in  his  mother's 
arms.  She,  bewildered  by  this  blow,  sank  to  the  floor 
beside  her  boy.  She  had  no  word  to  say;  she  forgot 
him  even,  for  she  was  living  over  again,  with  the  mother 
and  sisters  in  the  house  next  door,  the  awful  tragedy 
that  had  come  to  them.  She  could  not  grasp  the  thought 
that  the  man  whose  head  lay  pillowed  on  her  shoulder 
was  the  guilty  man  who  had  driven  "the  little  one"  out 
to  die  alone.  Then  came  the  horror  of  discovery.  Tom 
must  marry  Kathleen  at  once  no  matter  what  Jack  said. 
With  feverish  haste  she  proposed  to  Tom  the  thought 
that  had  come  to  her.  At  first  he  rejected  it. 

"No,  mother.  Jacob  must  know.  If  he  tells  Kath- 
leen she'll  never  marry  me."  The  horror  of  this  possi- 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          335 

bility  was  worse  to  Tom  than  the  present  tragedy.  Mary 
urged  and  pleaded.  At  last  Tom  listened. 

The  next  evening  Jacob  and  Gretchen  waited  for 
Kathleen,  who  had  wept  all  day  when  she  was  told  Tom 
could  not  come  there  again.  She  had  gone  for  a  walk. 
After  ten.  a  scrawled  note  came  telling  the  father  and 
mother  that  Kathleen  and  Tom  were  married.  There 
was  rage  and  forgiveness.  Gretchen  could  not  be  angry, 
she  said,  with  her  baby.  There  was  a  wedding  reception 
in  a  hall  uptown,  and  all  admired  the  handsome  bride- 
groom. Jack  was  not  there.  Mary  was  very  quiet. 

Mamie  saw  an  account  of  the  reception  in  the  society 
column  of  the  same  enterprising  journal,  and  regretted 
that  she  had  severed  her  relations  so  completely  with 
her  family;  one  had  gone  above  her.  She  might  have 
seen  her  name  in  the  list  of  guests  if  only  she  had  kept 
in  touch  with  Tom.  "He  always  got  on  after  we  got  him 
in  the  club.  I  might  have  kept  Tom.  George  never 
could  stand  any  but  Tom  and  Josie ;  he  is  so  particular." 
Mamie  sighed. 

A  month  later  the  home  of  many  long  years,  the  one 
in  which  "the  little  one"  was  born,  and  from  which  she 
had  gone  to  her  death,  was  empty.  The  three  women 
would  hide  their  shame  among  strangers.  Katie  and 
her  sisters  were  crucified  daily.  The  looks  of  pity,  the 
whisperings  among  the  girls,  they  could  not  endure. 
They  gave  up  their  work.  For  weeks  they  walked  the 
streets  seeking  for  employment  in  some  other  line  of 
work  to  avoid  meeting  the  girls  they  knew.  The  three 
rooms  were  given  up,  and  they  moved  into  one;  even 
this  they  could  not  support.  The  mother  began  to  wash 


336  THE   STORY  OF 

for  her  neighbors.  Katie  walked  with  bowed  head,  all 
the  old  pride  and  fire  of  ambition  quenched ;  the  family 
that  represented  the  aristocracy  of  the  poor  sank  to  the 
level  of  the  poor's  poor.  Never  mind;  the  blackened 
record  of  their  family  life  had  filled  half  a  page  in  a 
penny  journal,  developed  by  the  civilization  of  the  nine- 
teenth century.  Their  old  friends  and  neighbors  who 
wept  with,  and  often  for  them,  still  bought  it.  There 
was  always  the  possibility  of  another  sensation. 

Bridget  and  John  Cahill  were  not  at  Tom's  wedding 
reception,  for  Laddie  was  sick.  Jacob,  in  his  big, 
generous  way,  forgetting  everything  but  the  opportunity 
of  extending  hospitality,  had  come  to  urge  them  to 
come,  but  Laddie  lay  sick,  and  death  seemed  very  near 
that  week.  Kittie  never  left  Laddie,  nor  did  Bridget, 
except  to  attend  to  his  needs.  Nora  must  work,  for 
doctors  and  medicine  cost  money.  The  doctor  had  just 
left.  Kittie  still  heard  the  kindly  voice  saying  an 
operation  might  save  Laddie.  "If  he  were  in  the  hos- 
pital I'd  advise  it,  but  to  have  a  chance  of  success  he 
should  have  a  trained  nurse  with  him  all  the  time  for 
two  weeks."  His  voice,  in  its  soft,  decisive  tones, 
seemed  still  to  linger  in  the  rooms.  Bridget  had  gone 
out  with  a  prescription.  There  was  the  sound  of  a  step, 
Kittie  turned  her  head — it  was  Bob.  For  one  minute 
she  looked  at  him,  then  she  raised  her  arms.  Bob 
knelt  beside  her,  "I  can't  give  him  up,  Bob ;  I  can't !" 

Bob  held  her  close,  his  tears  falling  with  hers,  "We'll 
save  him,  Kittie,  we'll  save  him." 

Bridget  found  them  when  she  came  in,  and  hope 
sprang  up  where  despair  had  been. 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          337 

"God  bless  them!"  said  John  Cahill,  when  Bridget, 
with  her  cheek  against  his,  told  him  that  Bob  was  down- 
stairs with  Kittie. 

Kittie  kept  her  boy,  who  now  had  three  more  slaves  in 
his  train — his  father,  a  grandfather  and  grandmother. 
Kittie  herself  never  could  reconcile  the  Kittie  who 
went  to  work  in  rain  and  snow,  and  the  Kittie 
who  went  driving  every  day  beside  a  tall,  powerful  look- 
ing man,  holding  a  beautiful  boy  in  her  lap.  In  the  years 
to  come  Kittie's  sons  and  daughters  knew  the  sons  and 
daughters  of  those  who  never  had  walked  but  for  exer- 
cise ;  Kittie  never  knew  either  beyond  bowing  when  they 
met.  The  wife  of  the  able  business  manager  of  a  large 
corporation,  she  was  considered  exclusive.  Bob  found 
always  in  his  home  a  dainty,  sweet  wife,  in  whose  eyes 
there  always  lay  the  tragedy  of  their  lives.  He  could 
never,  with  all  his  love  and  devotion,  cover  it  from  sight 
or  memory,  and  in  time  his  face  reflected  it,  but  the 
world  saw  it  as  the  evidence  of  a  beautiful  nature ;  men 
and  women  trusted  him  for  what  his  sorrow  and  sym- 
pathy for  his  wife  wrote  in  his  face. 

Mamie,  riding  her  wheel  in  the  Park,  saw  Kittie, 
but  Kittie  had  forgotten  her.  Again  Mamie  regretted. 

When  Nora  married  Donald  Donnelly's  father,  Jim 
Brady  hired  the  rooms  she  left  and  furnished  them. 
Tressy  received  only  tenderness  from  the  labor-worn 
hands,  and  opened  a  door  of  refuge  to  her  father,  for 
since  Tom's  marriage  there  had  been  a  difference  in  the 
relations  of  his  father  and  mother.  Jack  would  not 
visit  Tom,  nor  did  Tom  come  to  his  father's  home  on 
Sundays. 


338  THE  STORY   OF 

Mary  never  approved  of  Jim  Brady,  and  Tressy  was 
made  conscious  of  it  whenever  she  met  her  mother.  To 
her  friends  Mary,  in  speaking  of  Tressy,  always  said, 
"Shure,  she  might  have  done  far  better." 

The  deflection  of  her  children,  of  their  interest  in 
their  home,  gave  greater  zest  to  Mary's  outside  activities. 
These  won  for  her  a  certain  prominence,  but  never  love, 
and  trust  only  till  some  act  of  hers  revealed  her  lack  of 
moral  balance,  and  a  new  set  of  followers  were  gathered 
together  to  drift  away  at  some  new  revelation.  As  the 
years  went  on  her  followers  decreased  but  she  refused 
to  accept  her  diminishing  influence. 

Her  son  John,  failing  in  winning  Kittie,  became  a 
quiet,  reserved  man.  He  married  a  girl  Mary  never  saw 
until  she  was  his  wife.  He  established  a  home  at  the 
other  end  of  the  city,  at  the  level  of  his  father's  in  space 
and  furnishing.  His  mother  and  father  were  politely 
received,  but  the  wife's  family  dominated. 

This  was  the  stage  of  development  reached  when  Jack 
suddenly  was  unable  to  work.  He  had  seen  the  factory 
go  down  until  four  men  instead  of  forty  were  employed. 
The  owner  was  willing  it  should  run  if  it  made  no  de- 
mands on  his  income  from  other  sources.  A  sentiment 
led  him  not  to  close  the  factory  that  had  laid  the  founda- 
tion of  his  fortune,  but  it  must  not  bother  him.  The 
shrinking  of  the  factory  had  marked  the  shrinking  of 
Jack's  life  interest.  He  worked  with  the  old  passion, 
but  with  defeat,  not  success,  the  result  of  his  best  effort. 
Now  he  was  too  ill  to  work ;  his  life  grasp  loosened  sud- 
denly. 

Like  a  knell  came  the  doctor's  verdict: 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY         339 

^Consumption." 

Jack  was  taken  to  a  noted  specialist,  who  by  a  few 
pointed  questions  drew  out  his  life's  history.  "No, 
there  is  no  hope.  You  cannot  sleep  in  wagons  and  hall- 
ways in  boyhood  and  fight  disease  successfully  even  in 
early  middle  life.  Nothing  can  be  done.  It  began  long, 
long  ago." 

All  the  love  for  Jack  that  had  lain  dormant  in  Mary's 
heart  during  these  years  of  abstraction  sprang  to  life 
and  activity.  Jack  became  the  centre  of  the  home. 
Every  act  of  her  life  was  considered  in  its  relation  to 
his.  Each  penny  was  counted  before  it  was  expended, 
unless  it  was  for  Jack.  The  sunny  days  when  he  went 
to  the  factory  were  Mary's  days  of  promise.  A  glory 
came  to  the  home  it  had  never  known.  It  centred  about 
a  quiet  man,  who  had  gone  in  and  out,  with  no  questions 
as  to  his  wish  in  any  plan  or  project  the  family  con- 
sidered; he  followed  after  them  or  was  forgotten. 

Now  the  home  was  his  home.  His  wife  came  to  him 
with  a  love  of  which  he  had  never  dreamed. 

The  path  along  which  he  was  walking  was  almost 
luminous,  though  he  had  entered  it  so  many  years  before 
he  expected. 

One  Sunday  night,  when  Mary  and  Jack  sat  in  the 
twilight  alone,  she  said  softly : 

"I  ain't  never  asked  yer,  Jack,  but  would  you  like 
to  see  a  minister  or  a  priest?" 

"No,  Mary.  I  got  along  widout  'em  so  far  and  they 
ain't  boddered  me,  so  I  guess  we'll  let  'em  alone,"  was 
Jack's  quiet  declaration. 

"But  Jack,  folks  do  have  somebody." 


340  THE   STORY  OF 

"I  know,  Mary,  but  I  always  thought  it  was  sneakin' 
to  wait  till  the  last." 

He  was  quiet  a  moment,  and  then  added :  "I  suppose 
the  children  will  want  somebody  at  the  funeral.  Have 
either.  It  don't  make  no  difference  to  me.  One's  as 
good  as  the  other." 

"What  was  yer  mother?"  persisted  bewildered  Mary, 
whose  choice  was  equally  indefinite. 

"I  don't  know."  Then  slowly :  "I  never  heard  of  me 
father.  It's  all  the  same  to  me  which  yer  have.  I  ain't 
troubled  them,  and  they  ain't  troubled  me." 

He  reached  in  the  darkness  for  Mary's  hand.  Firm, 
true,  tender  was  the  grasp. 

Tressy  had  just  left  them  with  Jim  and  the  baby, 
Jack. 

Whisperings  of  Tom's  life  had  come  to  them,  but  they 
had  not  believed  it.  Neither  knew  that  the  other  had 
heard  of  the  life  that,  were  it  but  known  publicly,  would 
disgrace  them.  Tom  had  not  been  to  see  them  for  a 
month.  Kathleen,  with  the  two  children,  had  been 
there,  but  she  had  kept  silence  in  the  presence  of  death 
which  she  saw  hovering  in  the  room,  though  her  face 
told  of  that  which  Tom's  father  and  mother  feared. 

As  the  twilight  deepened  the  sounds  on  the  street 
softened.  Night  fell  and  still  the  two  sat  in  darkness 
in  perfect  companionship.  The  silence  was  rudely 
broken.  Jacob  and  Gretchen  came  in.  Oblivious  of 
the  presence  that  kept  Kathleen  silent,  they  told  of  an 
outraged  home,  a  broken-hearted  wife.  Tom  had  gone 
off  with  a  friend's  wife ;  a  man  who  had  served  him  and 
his  interests.  He  had  mortgaged  all  the  furniture  iu 


AN  EAST -SIDE  FAMILY          341 

their  home,  taken  all  the  money,  leaving  Kathleen 
broken-hearted  and  penniless. 

Jack  was  buried  Sunday.  The  morning  before  he  died 
there  crept  into  the  room  a  girl  with  hair  of  many 
shades  of  gold,  whose  face  was  hard  even  in  its  con- 
science-stricken sorrow.  It  was  Josie ;  she  had  drifted 
out  into  the  world  where  the  bookkeeper  had  taken  her, 
hoping  to  win  him  back.  They  met.  Then  she  defied 
father  and  mother,  but  they  never  guessed  the  truth. 
Love  she  told  in  her  eyes  was  her  undoing,  as  it  was 
of  the  girl  who  had  for  a  time  supplanted  her  in  the 
shop.  She  was  working  too  far  uptown  to  come  home 
every  night,  but  she  paid  the  rent,  and  was  good  to 
her  mother  after  her  father's  death. 

One  night  Kittie  had  been  to  the  theatre  with  her 
husband.  When  they  left  the  carriage  a  woman  sat  on  the 
steps  of  her  home;  Kittie  stopped  and  spoke  to  her;  as 
the  light  fell  on  her  face,  Kittie  whispered  softly, 
"Josie,"  the  girl  raised  herself  to  her  feet  and  tried  to 
walk  away,  but  Kittie  put  her  arm  around  her. 

"Bob,  help  me." 

Josie  was  put  to  bed.  In  the  morning  Kittie  brought 
her  mother  to  her. 

A  home  was  made  for  Josie  and  her  mother  uptown, 
but  the  life  Josie  had  chosen  wooed  her  again  and 
again.  Mary's  power  was  gone;  she  ceased  to  struggle, 
sitting  in  shame  in  the  home  her  daughter  made,  cling- 
ing to  her  passionately. 

One  day  a  carriage  followed  a  hearse  to  the  ceme- 
tery where  "the  little  one"  was  carried  three  years  be- 
fore. Only  Kittie,  Bob,  and  Bridget  supporting  Mary, 


342  THE  STORY  OF 

knew  who  was  laid  to  rest.  There  were  no  reporters 
present,  so  the  world  was  not  electrified  by  another 
mother's  sorrow. 

Bridget  took  Mary  home.  Again  her  father  waited 
for  her,  but  it  was  not  to  save  her  from  blows. 

Sitting  where  she  could  see  the  old  dock,  now  fallen 
into  decay,  Mary  waited,  turning  with  the  smile  of  a 
child  at  the  sound  of  her  father's  footsteps.  She  called 
Jim  Brady  "Jack."  On  sunny  Sundays  she  leaned  on 
his  arm  as  he  carefully  guided  her  to  the  old  meeting- 
place  where  she  watched  contentedly  the  river  rippling 
by.  Sometimes  she  would  turn  her  head  at  the  sound  of 
a  footstep  as  if  listening  for  one  who  never  came. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


MAY  2  2  J972 


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A    000125339    2 


